


Still and Again

by luxover



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Family, M/M, Soul Bond, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know," Claude says. "I feel like shit; I know." And it's true: this isn't his first concussion, and it won't be his last, but none of that explains why he constantly feels worried when he's not, and none of that explains why Briere is here, or why he's sitting so far away.</p>
<p>Or, the trope mash-up where Claude gets hit a little too hard and forgets all about Danny and their soul bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still and Again

**Author's Note:**

> All the pom-poms in the world for bophew, my queen cheerleader. All the gratitude in my bones for sillygoose20, my goddess grammar guru. And no thanks whatsoever for derselbe, without whom this fic never would have been started, and never would have been finished, and without whom I'd probably actually be, like. A productive member of society or something.

Claude only realizes where he is and what’s happening as he’s halfway back to the benches, on his own two feet but held upright mostly by the trainers; anything before that—the hit that he obviously took, who they’re playing, where they are—is just a blank spot in his mind, and one that he doesn’t really worry about, because he’s been in this position before, and the little things will come back or they won’t. Either way, there’s nothing he can do about it.

His vision’s still blurry at the edges, pinpricks of color blocking his way, but one of the trainers has a firm grip on his upper arm, and Claude just lets himself be half dragged, half led to wherever he needs to be. It’s hard for him to breathe, though, his throat all closed up and his heart pounding, and he hurts everywhere, just all over. He keeps thinking, _Look at me, just look at me. C’mon, look at me_ , but he doesn’t even know what that means, can hardly breathe and can barely see, and so he just pushes the thought aside.

“Step,” one of the trainers says, and Claude reaches a hand out to the boards to steady himself as he does.

_Come on_ , he thinks to himself _. You’re alright, you’re alright_ , and then he can just see it, so perfectly in his mind: a patch of the rink, just off to the side of the goal, and a pair of gloves lying on the ice. It’s just there for a flash, but it has Claude turning back, anyway.

“My stick,” he says, his bare fingers still gripping hard onto the boards. “I forgot my—”

“Vora’s getting it for you,” the trainer says patiently, not letting go of his arm. “Step up.”

_What are you doing?_ Claude thinks to himself. _You’re okay, come on, come on_ , but he’s not so sure he _is_ okay; his vision is swimming, and his throat still feels tight. He feels so fucking worried, although he doesn’t know why, and so he blinks twice—long, slow blinks meant to clear his vision—and as he steps off the ice, he turns to the trainer and reassures him, “I’m fine.”

The trainer looks at him for long enough that Claude knows he heard, and then he glances over Claude’s shoulder and calls out to someone, "He alright?" He must get some response, because then he shakes his head and starts walking Claude down the tunnel. That’s when Claude’s heart really begins to go wild, beating faster than during even the toughest of bag skates, the kind of heartbeat that he can feel all the way down in his toes, his feet beating against the insides of his skates.

“What happened?” Claude asks, because he doesn’t—he really doesn’t feel well, just needs to focus and everything will be fine. “Did I hit my head?”

“You said it was mostly shoulder,” the trainer reminds him, still holding tight onto Claude’s bicep. “Brewer checked you clean, but you both fell and you went crashing into the boards.”

“Oh,” Claude says, and he tries to remember it, but he can’t. That shouldn’t matter because there are tons of hits that he can’t remember, and so he tells himself to focus, it’s fine, _he’s_ _fine_ , hockey now and everything else later. He feels sick, feels really fucking sick, and he swallows just to try to get rid of his dry mouth. It doesn’t help how he feels, so he says, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Almost there,” the trainer tells him, not picking up their pace at all, and if Claude throws up all over the hallway floor, then he throws up all over the hallway floor; there’s nothing to be done about it, and it’s not worth risking his health just to get to the trainer’s room a few seconds sooner.

Claude keeps moving, but finds himself blinking in and out of what’s going on; one minute he’s in the tunnel, thinking, _Don’t be sick, don’t be sick_ , and the next, he’s crossing the locker room thinking, _Focus on the forecheck, focus, just focus._ He doesn’t even remember making it through the door, but blinks and finds himself being helped up onto the trainer’s table. Claude’s just trying to breathe, trying to focus, just trying to get his heart to calm down before it gives out.

“Claude,” someone says. The trainer, it’s still the same trainer. There’s a weight on Claude’s shoulder pad, like maybe the trainer is resting his hand on top of it, and Claude wants to shrug it off, but is too tired to.

_Two more minutes_ , he thinks. _Two more minutes_. He can do that, just has to focus; everything’s fine.

“Everything’s fine,” Claude says again, and then the trainer waves some smelling salts underneath Claude’s nose. It’s like a bucket of cold water is upended over his head, and the clarity that he feels is instant: the room is brighter, sharper, and everything he sees is so tangible, so clear, and Claude wants to say it again _, It’s fine, everything’s fine, just gotta focus,_ except for how none of that is true. The salts just make him notice everything more: how sick he feels, how his head is cracked in two. Deep breaths are still hard to come by, and the only thing that’s different is how he can see now, how he can think a little bit more now. Claude can barely keep himself upright, wants to lie down.

“Better at all?” the trainer asks.

“No,” Claude tells him, because it's the truth; his head is pounding, and he wants to sleep it off. “Ninety seconds; he’s fine.”

There’s a pause in the conversation right after that that Claude doesn’t notice for the longest time, because he’s too busy trying not to be sick, too busy focusing, trying to be _here_ , to be _now_. When he realizes that neither of them have said anything for a while—when he realizes what it was that he had said—he looks up at the trainer for one long second before rubbing his closed eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Claude?” the trainer asks, and then a second later, he opens the door to the trainer’s room and says to whoever’s outside, “Get Danny in here the second he’s off the ice.”

“I think something came loose,” Claude tries to joke, but his heart is pounding and so is his head, and the joke falls flat, leaving him hunched over, clutching at his head and struggling to breathe. He’s just so fucking worried, is the thing; he can’t focus, has to focus, but that was a hard hit, _shit, hockey, hockey, focus, so fucking worried_. He keeps thinking he better be alright, has to be alright, _focus_ , but he can’t focus, and at least this period’s over, at least there’s that, because he can’t be on the ice right now, but where is he—oh shit, _where_ —

“Jim?” Claude hears someone call out, and that must be the trainer’s name. Jim. Claude doesn’t know if he knew that, and doesn’t worry about it, either, just stares at the floor and listens to the voice call for Jim again, before someone opens the door and a pair of skates walks into Claude’s line of sight.

Claude’s not with it, and doesn't realize he's even thinking of speaking before he motions toward the skates and says, “You’ll ruin the edge.” When he looks up, he’s talking to Danny Briere.

“Claude,” Briere says, still in breezers but missing his gear, and he smiles.

The relief Claude feels once Briere says his name is the first positive thing he's felt since he stepped off the ice, although it's still overpowered by the nausea and the headache. Claude wasn’t joking about the blade, though; he doesn’t know why it feels like he was, and he doesn’t know why he feels relief, either, because that’s _Danny Briere_ , and Claude would remember if he was playing with someone as huge as Danny fucking Briere. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, doesn’t know where to even begin, and everything comes rushing back just then, the pain in his head and in his shoulder, the weight on his chest, the worry, the _worry_ , the panic, confusion, and he suddenly can’t breathe again, tugs a little at his sweater and his pads, just trying to make more space for his chest.

“Shit,” Briere says, still in the doorway. “You couldn’t have taken that off?” He crosses the room— _The skates_ , Claude wants to say, _watch_ _the skates_ —and makes a motion like he's going to help Claude take off his sweater. Claude's arms feel like lead, though, and maybe Briere realizes that, because instead he puts his hand on the back of Claude’s neck, just for a second, and absolutely everything stops. The trainer falls away and the ticking of the clock falls away, the harsh fluorescent lighting falls away and Claude’s own ragged breathing falls away, until all that’s left is his heartbeat, and Briere’s heartbeat, just the two of them, strong and steady in his ears.

Claude looks up at Briere, and Briere’s saying something, but Claude can’t really hear it over their heartbeats, can’t really think past the light back and forth movement of Briere’s thumb across his skin. Claude just feels so good, better than he’s felt in a long time, and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to lose this feeling, not for anything in the world. Briere smiles down at him and so Claude smiles back, sleepily, lazily, his eyes slipping closed just for a second. He thinks that if he and Briere weren’t wearing such heavy skates, the two of them might just float away.

“You still with me, Claude?” Briere asks from somewhere close to Claude’s ear, laughter in his voice, and Claude thinks, _With you? I don’t even know you_.

And that—that’s a good point. The realization brings Claude back down to Earth, brings the nerves back, the worry, and Claude’s head starts throbbing again, just a little. He can’t handle this, the way he's feeling. He tries to just breathe, but Briere’s fingers tighten a little on the back of his neck, just a bit, and Claude thinks, _What the fuck? What the fuck did you do to me?_

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch me,” Claude says, hunching further in on himself and pulling away from Briere’s hand, from whatever the fuck Briere is doing to him. The room is spinning and he can’t fucking think straight, but the second Briere pulls his hand away, it all just gets worse; Claude’s hit with a wave of nausea, of sadness, of love and _worry_ , and it all just blocks up his throat until he can’t breathe at all. “Shit,” he says. “Shit, no, don’t, just—fuck, _please_.”

“Okay, okay,” Briere rushes out, and then he reaches a hand out like he’s going to touch Claude again before changing his mind and using it to brush back his own hair. “Can I—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Claude says through gritted teeth, and then the nausea hits him again. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Here,” Jim says, handing Claude the small wastebasket from the corner, and Claude takes it, but stops needing it the second Briere places his hand, however tentatively, back on Claude’s neck.

“Claude,” Briere says slowly, quietly, like he expects Claude to bolt. "What's going on?" Claude can hear him say it, but it’s like he’s hearing it from underwater, because there’s all this other stuff on top of it that’s just _louder_ : worry and love and fear and hurt, and Claude finds himself thinking, _What’s wrong with him? Fuck. Fuck, what happened? What do I do?_

“Stop feeling so fucking loud,” Claude snaps, his head still throbbing, and it doesn’t even make sense, but the words are out of his mouth before he has the chance to take them back. Briere starts moving his thumb again, just like before, back and forth, and slowly the pain numbs. Claude doesn’t get like he was before, but his muscles relax and he doesn’t hurt, so at least there’s that.

Briere steps closer and pulls Claude in toward his chest, his hand sliding around to the side of Claude’s neck, his thumb still sweeping over Claude’s skin. Claude would hate this, normally, being like this in front of someone he doesn’t know, but it’s just comforting, mashing his cheek into Briere’s chest, and so Claude tries not to think about it. He feels calm, warm, and his eyelids start flagging again. He finds it hard to stay awake, but harder still to fall asleep.

“—don’t know,” Briere’s saying quietly, and Claude wants to open his eyes, wants to look up at him, only he doesn’t because he’s comfortable. “It feels like he’s just receiving so much; I wasn’t being loud at all, and he’s acting like it’s back when we had just bonded, you know? Back when everything was going haywire, before we knew how to handle the fact that a bond even existed.”

“The hit, maybe?” Jim says, and it sounds like he’s got a pen in between his teeth. "Is that even possible?" None of it makes any sense, and Claude can hear the rapid click of computer keys, but he ignores it all in favor of focusing on Briere’s hand, curled halfway around the side of his neck, his little finger splayed wide and just brushing Claude’s collarbone.

“I don’t know,” Briere says again. “It just feels like that.” And then, after a pause, “What now?”

“Gotta take him to Dorsh,” Jim says. “And you gotta play another period.”

“I can’t—”

“You signed the contract,” Jim points out. “And Sal cleared you, right? Someone needs to, after a hit like that.”

“Yeah, he did,” Briere says. He sounds reluctant, and Claude’s barely following any of it, but he can feel the way Briere’s fingertips press harder into his skin. Claude’s angry, frustrated, and he thinks, _That’s bullshit_ , and, _I can’t leave him like this_ , but instead of saying anything, he just makes a noise at the back of his throat.

“Don’t be like that,” Briere says lightly, clearly talking to him. “The boys’ll be waiting for you; we gotta get you all checked out and back home.”

Claude opens his eyes and blinks, tries to make sense of what he’s being told.

“Back to billets?” he asks.

There’s a beat of uneasy silence where nobody says anything. Claude feels nervous, feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. He tries to sit up, but finds himself pressing closer into Briere’s side instead.

“No,” Briere says slowly. “Why would you be going back to billets?”

“I don’t know,” Claude says, his eyes now wide open, and he feels his heart rate start to pick up for no reason, tries to breathe evenly just to get it to go back to a resting rate. “You said I was going home.”

“Yeah,” Briere says, still speaking slowly. “I did.”

Claude feels like he’s going to be sick again, his limbs heavy and the lights too bright _. Not good_ , he thinks. _This is not good. What happened, what happened, what happened_ —

“Jesus Christ,” Claude says. “Am I going crazy? I think I’m going crazy.”

“No,” Briere says firmly.

“You have a concussion,” Jim tells him, as if this is at all like any other concussion Claude has ever had. “We’ll have to run some more tests. Do you remember who you’re playing for?”

“Gatineau,” Claude says, because even if he’s concussed, he’s not a fucking idiot. “The Olympiques.”

There’s another pause; Briere just completely freezes, his entire body locking up, and Claude just feels nothing. He feels absolutely nothing, just numb shock over nothing at all.

Eventually, Jim says, “Okay, Claude? I need you to listen to me. We’re going to take you to the hospital, and you’re going to have to get some tests done.”

“I can’t play when he’s—” Briere starts.

“Danny,” Jim says, cutting him off. Then he turns to Claude and says, “Claude, I’m going to be straight with you, because it’s not doing you any favors to keep you in the dark. You just got hit pretty bad, and we need to get you a CT scan, an MRI, get you checked out for concussion and run some tests for memory loss. Okay?”

And Claude—he can’t make sense of what he’s feeling, because he doesn’t want to go to the hospital, just wants to go back out on the ice, but he also wants to go to the hospital more than anything, and is dreading going back out on the ice, and it’s just so much, everything that he’s feeling, all of it contradicting itself, and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

Briere moves his hand so that all four of his fingertips are crammed under Claude's shoulder pads, resting on his collarbone.

Claude thinks, _Say okay_ , and so he says it.

“Okay.”

 

Everything that happens after that happens so fast that Claude can't keep up, too busy blinking in and out of time like he was back in the tunnel. One minute Jim's there, and then the next, he's someone else.

"Claude, this is Sal," Briere says, his voice soft, and Claude means to ask why Briere's even still there, only he's not so sure that he does.

"My head's fucked up," he says instead, although maybe he only thinks it, because then he blinks and Briere's on his knees, taking off Claude's skates. So Claude says it again, "I think my head's fucked up," and then thinks, _Stop saying that, please, stop saying that, stop saying that_.

"You're _fine_ ," Briere says shortly, and then he and Sal are helping Claude off the table. Claude feels warm all down his left side, where Briere's gripping his bare elbow, but his head hurts too much and his brain is too foggy for him to even enjoy it.

Claude opens his mouth to say, _I think my head's fucked_ _up_ , or, _Where'd my jersey go?_ or, _Can someone call my mom? I think I want my mom_ , but instead, he's pretty sure what he actually says to Briere is, "You look even better in person than I'd imagined."

He's not even embarrassed once he realizes he said it out loud, is the thing; he probably should be, but instead he just feels so sad and so worried, completely buried under it all because he can't keep up and doesn't understand, just knows that nothing is right.

"Alright, c'mon, G," Sal says. "Let's get you to the car."

Briere walks with the two of them out of the trainer's room, one hand still on Claude's elbow, but when he gets out into the hall, he lets go and steps back. Claude turns to follow him, but Sal tugs him in the opposite direction, and Claude, barely balancing on his own, has no choice but to go with him.

Claude feels a thousand pounds heavier with each step, and Sal keeps saying things like, "Come on, Claude, you're good," and, "Oh no, shit, please don’t cry," and, "You want a wheelchair? I can get a wheelchair."

Claude doesn't want a wheelchair, and he tells Sal as much, says, "No, I just—I just want to throw up."

He doesn't throw up, but Sal loads him into the car with a wastebasket, anyway, and then climbs in around the other side. The drive is quiet, and Claude just spends most of it resting his head against the cool window, his eyes shut because it hurts too much to see all the street lamps flying by.

For a split second, Claude feels so light and happy—out of nowhere, and over nothing—but then it all comes crashing back down, and he just screws his eyes shut tighter.

They put him in a wheelchair the second he steps through the hospital doors; Claude would hate it except for how he can't bring himself to even care, and before he knows it, he's being offloaded onto another med table, in a new room without Briere, or anything else that could explain why he can't think straight, and doesn't remember the game or the hit or any of it.

"G?" Sal's saying. "G, this is Dorsh—Gary Dorshimer, our doctor."

Claude opens his eyes and sees a middle aged man with greying hair and a mustache, exactly like every other doctor from every other team he's ever been on.

"Claude," the man says calmly, smiling a little. "We're just going to do a basic concussion test before we start in on the scans, alright? Just to see where we are."

"Okay," Claude says. "Sure, okay."

They do a whole battery of tests while Sal just stands off in the corner. Dorsh says, "Touch my finger and then touch your nose," and Claude does, and then Dorsh says, "Repeat these numbers backwards," and Claude does. Dorsh says, "Stand still with your feet together," and Claude does, and then he says, "Now stand just like that on this foam mat," and Claude does. He feels like shit after all of it, just completely fucking drained and frustrated and upset, because he's done this a dozen times before, and yet it's all still so fucking hard. He doesn't know how he did on any of it, doesn't remember anything else Dorsh said except for his instructions.

When Dorsh sits him back down, he takes out a clipboard and says, "Great, you did great, Claude. Now it’s just more questions."

"Okay," Claude says, but he's still waiting for the first question. He thinks about the game, and how much happier he'd be if he were playing. "What was the final score?"

Sal lets out a laugh that has no sound, but neither he nor Dorsh answers.

"Do you feel sad?" Dorsh asks instead. "Or depressed?"

"Uh," Claude says, and he tries to think of what there is to be sad or depressed _about_. He presses the heels of his palms into his closed eyelids. "Yes. I feel sad, but I'm not sad. I'm going crazy."

"You're not going crazy," Dorsh says. "Feeling nauseous at all?"

"Comes and goes."

"Have you been crying at all?"

"No," Claude answers. He feels like he's in a rush to get somewhere, only he doesn't have anywhere he has to be; he bounces his foot at the ankle, sitting so high up his toes don't even touch the ground.

"He was crying when we were leaving the arena," Sal speaks up, and Claude doesn't remember that at all; he wants to say that he wasn't, except maybe that's just more time that he's lost, that he can't remember.

"That's alright," Dorsh says, still smiling. "Perfectly normal. And your bond?"

"Not bonded," Claude says, and he wants to ask if Briere is, but that's really none of his business, and it's embarrassing, falling into the role of star-struck rookie. Briere’s _married_ ; it doesn't matter if he's bonded or not.

"Okay," Dorsh says after a pause, still writing things down on his clipboard. "Let's go get you to the MRI."

Claude doesn't want to go—fucking hates getting MRIs—but he climbs back into the wheelchair and heads down the hall with them, anyway. He passively lets himself be arranged on the scanning table, and then they load him into the machine. It's boring, nothing to look at, no one to talk to even if he was feeling up to it, and he almost falls asleep a few times, until Dorsh comes over the little speaker and says, "Just a while longer, Claude."

The door to the room opens, and Claude can't see who it is; it's not Dorsh, because doctors always announce themselves, but Claude still feels so relieved for some reason, anyway. He's so tired that he doesn't even move, just lies there and stares at the hard white plastic above his face, struggles to stay awake as he thinks to himself, _You're alright, you're alright, you're alright_.

When he's done with the scan, the table starts automatically pulling out. It's bright in the room, back out under the lights, and it takes Claude's eyes a long minute of rapid blinking just to adjust; he tells himself to ignore the headache that it causes. When he can see, Claude notices that Briere is there, sitting in a chair just off to the side. He's wearing a Flyer's t-shirt and shower shoes, and Claude is immediately and inexplicably worried.

"What happened? Did you get hit?" he asks. When Briere takes too long to respond, Claude turns quickly to Dorsh, who’s walking through the doorway, and it causes the room to spin. "Did Briere get hit?"

"No," Dorsh says calmly. "His checkup was just extra precaution." And then just to Briere, he says, "This is a good sign, Danny."

"Precaution for _what_?"

Claude looks to Briere again, at the way his hair falls into his face, at how pale he is and at how tired he looks, at how he's folding the brim of a cap in between his hands. It makes Claude want to get up, to reach over and put his hand on Briere's knee, on the bare skin not covered by his shorts. He puts his hand on his own knee instead, but it's not the same, doesn't feel the same. He lets his chin drop to his chest and pulls the collar of his shirt up over his eyes to block out the light, and tries to think past _Remember, remember, remember_.

He blindly sticks his hand out, palm up, and Briere hands him the hat; Claude lets go of his shirt collar and puts the hat on, tugging the brim down low over his eyes. He feels anxious again, real anxious, and he just wants to touch but knows that he _shouldn't_ , that he's not _allowed_ —

"—aude?" Dorsh asks. "You still with us?"

"Yeah," Claude says, not looking up. "Yes, yeah, sorry."

"Alright, I need you to listen," Dorsh says slowly. "The MRI looks good, and all your response times are in line with a moderate concussion."

"I know," Claude says. "I feel like shit; I know." And it's true: this isn't his first concussion, and it won't be his last, but none of that explains why he constantly feels worried when he's _not_ , and none of that explains why Briere is here, or why he's sitting so far away.

Claude's pretty sure he doesn't say any of that, but Briere still gets up and moves his chair closer, until it's right alongside the MRI table. Claude just watches him, neither of them saying anything, and he thinks, _Breathe, okay, it's fine, just remember._

"The memory loss is a part of that," Dorsh continues, "and since everything else looks fine, it should only be temporary. I’d still like you to come in for a follow-up later on, especially as I know you said you thought it was 2006, but—"

"I never said that," Claude interrupts. "We never talked about that." His heart starts climbing into his throat, and he thinks, _Jesus Christ, is it not 2006?_

"You told me earlier, during the exam," Dorsh says patiently. "It's January of 2013 now. Most of the missing time should come back, probably within a few days."

"Should?" Claude asks. " _Should_? Oh, fuck, that's _years_ ," and he just—he wants to be out of this hospital, and he thinks, _You're okay, just breathe_ , and he thinks, _I gotta get out of here_ , and he doesn't know what to do until Briere happens to prop his elbow up on the MRI table, the length of his forearm pressing up against the length of Claude's thigh. Everything drains out of Claude the second the two of them are touching, all the anxiety and the worry, the stress, the headache. He looks at Briere, and then at Dorsh. "What's happening to me?"

There's a pause, and then Dorsh says calmly and clinically, "I know it might be difficult for you to understand, but you and Danny are bonded, and have been for almost eight years." His eyes flick between Claude and Briere, and—what the fuck, bonded to _Briere_? Claude doesn't even know the guy past watching him on tv and having his poster up on the wall of his bedroom back at his parents' house. This can’t be real. "The concussion seems to be affecting things—namely, your memory and how you receive his emotions—but luckily, other than a headache and a bit of sensitivity to light, Danny doesn't seem to be showing any signs of your hit. What I suggest that the two of you—"

"I don't even know him," Claude insists, over the top of Dorsh, and then everything comes flooding into his head from what he can now only assume is the bond: _sadness, anger, hurt, love, worry, love, love._

Briere clenches his jaw and looks away; something in Claude is screaming to reach down, to touch the soft skin on the inside of Briere's wrist with his fingertips, only he doesn't know why he would ever do that, and so he stays still and doesn't look at anyone.

He briefly—hypothetically, unrealistically—wonders if getting hit again would mean that his memories would fall back into place, and he feels so angry at himself for even thinking it that he has to take long, deep breaths just to calm down again.

He tries not to think about it, or anything at all.

 

They tell Claude that he’s cleared to go home, just to take it easy and follow regular concussion protocol, but something on his face must show his immediate panic over not knowing where home even _is_ , over assuming that his home is _Briere’s_ home, because then Dorsh is offering to have him stay for observation, and Sal is offering up his spare room.

“He’s not going to—” Briere starts, and he looks so incredibly mad. Claude feels it, too, his anger and his love, how hurt he is that Claude is wary, how worried he is for his family. It’s a lot for Claude to process, and so he doesn’t even try, just tugs a little on the brim of his cap and lets it all wash over him, trying not to focus on any one emotion at all.

“We’ll let you talk it over,” Dorsh says. “But Danny, don’t push too hard; forcing these things can damage the connection.” And then he and Sal leave the room.

Briere doesn’t say anything, and Claude never knows what to say on a good day, so they just sort of sit there, Claude staring at the wall and Briere staring at Claude. It’s not awkward—Claude can’t find a single thing that’s awkward about it—but instead it’s sort of just comfortable, and Claude thinks about going home.

“Do you want to stay here?” Briere asks.

“I don’t know,” Claude answers honestly, because a part of him thinks maybe that’s for the best, but an even larger part is screaming, _Come home, come home, come home._ That’s not him, Claude now knows it’s not, and the realization that he’s not alone in his own head makes him feel anxious, trapped.

“Well, just—we’ll do whatever you want,” Briere says, although his mind is still chanting, _Come home, come home_. “Whatever you feel most comfortable with, that’s what we’ll do.”

And Claude—he’s eighteen. Or, he feels eighteen, at least. He can’t be this person that Briere keeps expecting him to be; he doesn’t know how to go back to someone else’s house or how to fill someone else’s shoes, and although he opens his mouth to explain all that, what he actually ends up saying is, “What do _you_ feel most comfortable with?”

Claude feels a rush of warmth, feels love, love, love, and when he looks over, Briere is smiling; even though Claude has seen bigger smiles, it still makes Briere look ten years younger, and some part of Claude that he doesn’t know and can’t relate to really likes seeing Briere like that.

Briere thinks, _Come home_ , but what he says is, “Whatever you want.”

Whatever Claude wants? What Claude wants is to not feel so sick; he wants to be able to think straight, and not have to squint through the lighting in the room, and he wants to not feel nauseous and not have Briere or anyone else in his head. He can’t have any of those things though, so he thinks about spending the night in a hospital bed, thinks, _Visitor’s hours, coffee, the boys_ , and then he thinks about going back to Briere’s, _Come home, come home_ , and he wonders if that would be any better or any worse than going back to Sal’s, _Come home_ —

“Can we—” Claude starts. “What’s your place like?”

Nothing on Briere’s face changes to give him away, but Claude feels the relief and the hope and the _our_ , anyway.

“It’s a pretty big house,” Briere says calmly, evenly. He shifts in his seat, and Claude closes his eyes to block out the light. “It’s probably a disaster, since we have the boys—my, uh. My sons. They’re twelve, fourteen, and fifteen. They stay with us when we’re home, so it’s them and the two dogs, and we have an extra room, too, so if you don’t want—you don’t have to worry, is all—”

“I’m not worried,” Claude snaps, but they both know he’s lying, and so he lets it drop. He’s no stranger to billets, to living with people he doesn’t know, but this is something completely different. Sure, it’s Danny Briere, but Claude doesn’t even _know_ the guy, and yet they have two dogs and three kids, a house, a _family_ , and there’s no way Claude’s ready for that. He thinks again about staying in the hospital, about being alone all night, surrounded by machines, and then he thinks about the hospital bed and the hospital food, and about Briere being so far away, back at his house, and then it just suddenly feels so easy to say, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Briere asks, and it feels like relief and uncertainty.

“Yeah,” Claude says, and he swallows hard. He feels nervous and relieved, exhausted, and he just wants to sleep for days.

“Okay,” Briere says, and even without Briere in his head, Claude knows that’s not really what he means, and he tries his hardest not to think about it.

“Right,” he just says instead, and then he runs a hand through his hair. “I really don’t feel well.”

“I know,” Briere says, and Claude watches as Briere curls the fingertips of his left hand into the fabric of his shorts. Claude likes that Briere’s not apologizing, and not making claims that are just wild guesses about how Claude will feel later on, but then again, he supposes that after seven years, Briere has to have learned a thing or two about him.

Jesus. Seven fucking years. He can’t even imagine it.

Claude holds his breath for a long second, and then lets it out in a shaky exhale. He just feels like something’s off, like something’s _wrong_ , even though—obviously he feels like that; he’s _concussed_ , he’s forgotten _years_ of his life, of course he doesn’t exactly feel right. It’s a miracle he feels as close to _right_ as he does.

“Come on,” Briere says, standing. “The best thing to do is to let you get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Claude agrees, and then he shuts his eyes and focuses on breathing for a second, gearing himself up to get off the table and deal with the dizziness and sickness that will inevitably come with motion. “Are you driving? I can’t drive like this; I can barely think.”

Which—it’s not exactly true; Claude can think plenty, just can’t make much sense of it, the constant stream of, _My head, the lights, please remember, get the guest room ready, so fucking sick, handle the boys, what do I say, what should I_ —

“No, we’ll take a cab,” Briere says. “I don’t want to drive like this either.”

Claude doesn’t like hearing that, hates the way his heart pounds in his chest, completely different from the sick, anxious pounding from earlier. He says, “I thought—the doctor said it was just a precaution. If it was just a precaution—”

“It is,” Briere interrupts, reassuring him. “I’m fine. I even played after, remember? But you got slammed, Claude, harder than I’ve ever seen, and I’m already having a hard time with the lights. And since your head is my—”

Briere cuts himself off. Claude can feel his frustration, even though Briere doesn’t show it and even though it’s buried under all that worry, and he can tell that Briere doesn’t mean for Claude to feel any of that, doesn’t _want_ Claude to feel any of that, like maybe if Claude doesn’t realize that he doesn’t know what to do either, things will somehow be easier.

“And your head is my head,” Claude finishes. He’s feeling frustrated, too, and he can’t tell if that’s because of what he’s feeling, or because of what Briere’s feeling. “Don’t fucking— _do_ that.”

He means, _Don’t talk to me like I’m a child_ , and, _Don’t treat me like I’m fragile_ , and, _Don’t censor yourself when I know what you’re thinking, anyway_ , and although he imagines that Briere gets the point, he doesn’t stop to check, just slides off the med table and onto his feet. The room spins—exactly as he expected—and suddenly everything’s blinking out of focus, black creeping in around the edges of his vision, and he reaches out for the med table—for _anything_ —just to help with his balance.

Claude finds Briere’s arm instead, and just touching him like that—his hand on Briere’s elbow, Briere’s hand around his forearm—quiets everything in Claude’s head, just for one blissful minute. It feels too good to pull away, especially with how Claude’s been feeling for the past few hours. Just touching Briere makes him feel like he should, like everything’s crisp and clear, like he can think again, like he can _breathe_ again.

“Can we just...” Claude says before pausing and letting go of Briere’s arm. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s almost like the lights are brighter now that he’s standing up, and so he tugs the brim of his hat down again, even though it won’t go any farther, and sways a little on his feet. “Can we just get out of here?”

“Of course,” Briere rushes out, and then he steps out into the hallway before coming back a second later with a wheelchair.

“I don’t need that,” Claude tells him, but he sits down in it anyway, his elbows on his knees as he hunches over and presses the heels of his palms back into his closed eyelids.

Briere doesn’t say anything, just wheels Claude to the exit and helps him into the cab, and then very purposefully leaves space between their bodies in the back seat, except for when he puts his palm flat down on the leather between them and extends his pinky until it’s just barely touching Claude’s.

Claude is too exhausted to mind, especially since it’s comforting, and so he just rests his head against the window and tries not to think of how the last time he saw Briere, it was on tv. Danny fucking Briere, playing for the NHL and scoring the type of big-game goals that Claude planned to score himself when he wasn’t just eighteen years old and stuck in the Q.

He tries not to think of that, and tries to ignore the press of Briere’s fingertip against his.

 

Claude’s not sleeping, not exactly, but Briere still shakes him awake when they get to the house with one gentle hand on Claude’s shoulder.

“Claude,” he says quietly. “Claude, we’re here.”

Claude blinks his eyes open and pulls his forehead away from the cold window, trying not to feel nervous and apprehensive, because he’s not sure if he’s the one even feeling that way in the first place. Instead, he look at Briere, and at the bags under his eyes, and then he looks out the window at the house; it’s big, with lights on behind the closed drapes, but other than that, there’s nothing that Claude finds particularly memorable, nothing that strikes him as _home_.

“Okay,” he says, and he tries to shoulder the door open. His fingers fumble with the handle, but the door doesn’t give, and so he shoves at it a little harder, tugs on the handle again until Briere reaches past him and unlocks the door. Claude pauses for a second, but Briere doesn’t say anything even as their arms brush, and so Claude just opens the door and steps out, fighting his head rush along the way.

Everything goes hazy for a second once he’s on his feet, but Claude just rests his hand on top of the cab until it goes back to normal. The cold air feels good on his cheeks, and almost makes him feel like a real person again. He glances toward the trunk, but can’t remember if they put anything in there.

“I got it, Claude,” Briere says.

Claude nods, standing there for a moment longer, and then he turns and starts making his way slowly up the driveway. He wonders if he should’ve waited for Briere, but if they’re bonded, this is his house, too, and so he thinks this is okay. There are a few hockey sticks tossed haphazardly onto the front lawn, and a road goal knocked over onto its side, and Claude gets distracted by them. He never thought about what his house would be like once he left billets, not really, but now he thinks it would be like this, with hockey gear everywhere because that’s the only thing that matters.

He thought he had only paused for a second, but then Briere’s at his side, touching his elbow and startling him out of his haze. He says, “You okay?”

Claude looks down the driveway, at where the cab is pulling away, and by the time he looks back to Briere, Briere’s wincing like he realizes what a dumb question that was.

“I’m fine,” Claude says anyway, and then he smiles, because he just feels so fucking fond—of _himself_ , and he starts frowning the second he realizes it.

“No, you’re not,” Briere says, his fingers a steady pressure around Claude’s arm. He’s standing really close to Claude, and Claude wants to pull away, only he doesn’t because a small part of him feels so relieved by the proximity. “Come on, let’s get you inside; it’s cold out tonight.”

Briere lets go of Claude’s arm, and then takes a noticeable step back, shifting a duffle bag higher up on one shoulder. Claude shrugs and nods, and then sticks his hands deep into his hoodie pockets before looking to the door. He doesn’t move, waits for Briere to go first, and then follows right behind him.

“Careful on the stairs,” Briere says when they reach the front steps.

Claude wants to snap at him, say that he knows how to climb some fucking stairs, and he only holds back because he’s feeling so fucking _worried_ about it, about five steps. That’s not him, he doesn’t think; it must be Briere, who’s suddenly hovering just off to the side, but maybe it’s not, Claude thinks, when he sees just how white-knuckled his own grip is around the railing, when he gets a head rush two steps into it and sways like he’s going to fall backwards.

“Hey,” Briere says, placing a hand on the small of Claude’s back.

“I’m f—”

“You’re not _fine_ ,” Briere snaps, seeming upset for the first time since Claude’s seen him, and Claude feels awful for it, feels Briere feel awful for it, too.

“Sorry,” Claude says.

“Don’t be,” Briere tells him quietly. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t, just moves to unlock the front door.

And maybe that’s the case, but Claude’s still thinking _, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know this is hard_ , and he can’t say for sure that he’s not the one thinking it.

Light and laughter spill out of the doorway once Briere gets it open, both of which make Claude wince and pull back a little. He’s not ready for this, he’s not—there are kids in there who think of him as a stepfather, maybe, or at least as a part of their family, and he can’t—he doesn’t know how to—

Claude feels his heart start to race and he braces himself for the kids running to the door, but they never do, and the only thing to come their way is a fat bulldog, who excitedly waddles into Claude’s shins.

“Zoey,” Briere halfheartedly scolds, but she didn’t do anything wrong, and so Claude braces one hand against the doorjamb for balance and then bends over and scratches Zoey behind one ear. His vision swims when he stands back up, but Zoey’s happy, wagging her tail, and so at least there’s that.

From the other room, the boys let out a chorus of, “ _Ohh_!” followed shortly by one of them protesting, “But that’s not fair! He unpaused it!” Claude immediately thinks, _Shit, the boys, what do I say, not a regular concussion, remember, remember_. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second to try to get the words out of his head, but that’s not how this bond seems to be working, and Briere doesn’t go anywhere.

“Come on,” Briere says, smiling small and tense, “I’ll show you where your room is.” He takes a step or two down the hallway and then glances over his shoulder to make sure that Claude’s following, looking unsure as to whether or not he should be helping somehow.

Claude wants to wrap his hand around the back of Briere’s elbow as they walk, just in case Briere falls, and then he feels angry at himself for it, and at Briere, and at the bond between them. It’s fucking exhausting, and his head hurts enough that he doesn’t want to deal with it. This is supposed to be his home, but he doesn’t remember any of it, not the floor mat that he wiped his feet on or the pile of dirty sneakers just inside the door, not the hardwood or the crown molding, not the pictures of the five of them that line the walls and that he purposefully avoids looking at. He feels like he’s in a stranger’s house, and wonders if he ever really feels at home here, or if he usually feels like a guest waiting to get back to someplace more comfortable. The ice, maybe. His parents’ back in Gatineau.

He and Briere round the corner, and the second they do, Claude’s hit with a wave of love, followed by a wave of worry. It’s different from earlier, though, makes his stomach bottom out in a way he’s never felt before, and it’s only once he looks around that he thinks he realizes why: none of it is directed toward him. The boys are there, two of them lounging on the couch and one of them splayed starfish on his stomach across a pile of pillows on the floor, and they’re playing video games, laughing.

Briere loves them so much that Claude’s choked with it, worries about them so much that Claude wants to cry.

“Hey, boys, we’re home,” Briere says softly, and one of them pauses the game. They all turn to look over—the three boys, and the Boston terrier hidden in the cushions—and Claude’s heart is pounding in his chest.

“G!” the youngest boy rushes out, and Claude wonders if he’s even Briere’s, he looks so different from the other two. “Are you okay? We were really worried!”

“Yeah,” the oldest boy agrees, deadpan. “It’s _hockey_ , not WWE Smackdown.”

“That’s not _funny_ ,” the youngest argues, his face all scrunched up.

“It kind of is,” the third boy says sagely, nodding his head. “What? He’s obviously okay.”

“Boys,” Briere finally speaks up, cutting in. He sounds more like a dad that Claude had expected, despite not raising his voice. “Claude’s not feeling well, so I’m going to help him get to bed, and then we need to talk.”

“Okay,” the oldest boy says. And then, clearly speaking for the group, “We put water, Tylenol, and red Gatorade in the room already, so you don’t have to.”

“And we lowered the shades,” the youngest adds, and Claude just—

It sounds like they’ve been through this all before, like they have a _pattern_ , and Claude doesn't know if he feels worse for ruining it, or for giving them a reason to need one in the first place. He thinks about telling them that he's sleeping in the guest room, but they're all just so _young_ ; he wasn't really expecting that, just how young they are, and how young twelve looks. He can feel Briere tense, and all of a sudden, Claude can't tell them the truth. He wants to lie to them about how he's feeling more than he's ever wanted anything in the world. He wants it more than he ever wanted the NHL, and that's fucking terrifying, looking at these kids who aren't his and who he doesn't even know, and thinking, _There is nothing I wouldn't give up for you_. Claude doesn't know how to handle that.

They look like his brothers, maybe, or his little cousins. They don’t look young enough to be Claude’s kids, and Claude doesn’t feel old enough to be their step-father.

"Thanks," Briere says softly to them. "Let me get him set—"

“Can I—” Claude interrupts, and then stops short, clears his throat in an attempt to breathe easier. The tall lamp in the corner is so, so bright, and Claude doesn’t know why he’s only just now realizing how it makes his eyes water, makes his vision swim. He licks his lips and tries to breathe, opens his mouth to say something smart, only what comes out is, “Can I just sit down for a second?”

"No, no, hey," Briere says, a hand back on Claude's arm to steady him. Maybe Claude was swaying on his feet, he doesn't know, but he feels a lot more grounded with Briere's hand on him like that. "Let's get you to bed, alright?" He starts walking Claude across the living room, and then says to the boys, "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? To talk."

Claude thinks he hears one of the boys say, "You think he's okay? He looks really out of it," and then _knows_ he heard one of them say it when he feels his stomach drop. He wants to make Briere promise not to say anything to them, but then he zones out at the foot of the stairs, and doesn't remember walking anywhere or thinking anything at all.

Claude blinks to in front of a mostly closed door, and when Briere pushes it open with his fingertips, Claude's looking at the master bedroom, at the dresser and the large tv, a t-shirt draped over the back of the chair in the corner. Claude doesn't know whether to look at that, at the _OUX_ that he can make out along the back, or at the blue striped bedspread, or at the dog bed on the floor.

He must just be staring, because then Briere says, "Claude?" and Claude startles. "Don't worry, the dogs usually sleep with one of the boys."

He walks in, sidestepping Claude as he does, and heads to the dresser, which is covered with photos and a striped tie and a small stack of paperwork weighted down by a hockey puck dated in silver sharpie. Claude's heart pounds in his chest as he watches Briere casually take out gym shorts and a t-shirt, neither of which probably belong to him.

Claude thinks, _Calm, easy in, easy out, for him, be calm_ , and he thinks, _Never been here before, not billets, not home,_ and he pictures in his head a clean room with a queen-size bed and a dresser without any clutter on top, and he feels anxious, feels like pacing.

"Where am I sleeping? Where's the guest room?" Claude asks, nerves setting in at the thought that maybe Briere forgot. His heart races at the thought of maybe sharing a bed with Briere, because he’s wanted that for years, in some sort of vague way, but Claude—Claude’s just eighteen, and Briere is a man who has experience—maybe even experience with _Claude_ —and Claude suddenly feels horribly, terrifyingly out of his league. He feels like his eighteen-year-old self might be a disappointment, clumsy and unsure, and can’t bear the thought of embarrassing himself in front of Briere like that.

Briere looks up at him, faint surprise written across his face and flaring through Claude's chest.

"What?" he asks. Then, "No! No, no, I'll sleep in the other room. You sleep here; it's familiar—or, it was, and maybe..."

Claude knows what Briere means by _maybe_. He _feels_ what Briere means by _maybe_ , but neither of them says it out loud and he's grateful for it. Maybe he'll go to bed in Briere's room and wake up knowing what it's like to be bonded to him, but Claude doubts it; none of this seems _real_.

"Do you need help? Getting dressed or anything?" Briere asks, and Claude closes his eyes, rests his head against the doorjamb, he's so tired.

He thinks about the awkwardness of having a stranger help him take his shirt off, thinks about the unbearable intimacy of having a stranger help him put a clean one on, and just says, "No."

He looks at Briere; Briere's holding the clothes in between his two hands, still in gym shorts and shower shoes from after the game.

"Okay," Briere says slowly. "Okay, then. I'll just... I'll be sleeping in the room across the hall if you need anything."

He places the clothes at the foot of the bed and then walks over to the door, to where Claude is still standing. Then, slowly, he reaches a hand out to brush Claude's hair back off of his forehead, stiffens when Claude flinches away and doesn't relax even when Claude eventually melts into it.

Claude looks at Briere and thinks, _He's not Sylvie, it's not like that_ , and doesn't bother to figure out what that even means; he doesn't remember any Sylvies, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know any.

Claude's just so tired—weighed down by how tired he is, how sad and anxious and in love—that he can't be bothered to move, even when Briere pulls his hand away and says, "Goodnight, Claude."

Briere's about to turn away, and Claude opens his mouth to say, _Stay_ , only to remember that he doesn't want that. Briere pauses and looks at him questioningly, anyway, and so instead, Claude swallows and says, "Thanks, Briere."

"It's Danny," Briere corrects him, and he smiles in a way that doesn't make him seem any happier. He pauses there, just for a long second, before nodding his head like he’s made a decision. He doesn’t say anything else after that, just turns around and heads down the hall, and Claude rocks forward on his toes like his body is thinking of following.

Claude stands where he is, half asleep on his feet, and only when he can’t see Danny anymore does he shake out of his daze. He shuts the door because he doesn’t really know what else to do, but that just leaves him alone in Danny’s bedroom, with the framed photos and the dog-eared books on the end tables, and that’s not any better than standing alone in the hall. Claude flicks off the lights so he doesn’t have to see any of it, and instead flops face-first on top of the sheets, falling asleep without changing, hardly awake for long enough to even wonder whose side of the bed he's on.

Claude wakes up the next morning with his face mashed into the pillows and one arm hanging off the bed. He’s still tired, but the kind of tired where he doesn’t think he’ll ever actually fall back asleep, no matter how hard he tries, just because of how he feels. He feels like shit, his head throbbing and his body aching, and when he opens his eyes slowly, squinting out at the room around him, he doesn’t recognize anything, not the furniture or the short stack of books next to the bed, or the dead space where nothing sits. He’s hit with a second of extreme panic, the kind that puts his heart up in his throat, before he’s finally able to remember where he is.

Briere’s. Danny’s. He’s at—Claude’s at Danny’s house, in Danny’s bedroom, only it’s his bedroom, too. He remembers that much. It doesn’t feel like his bedroom.

Everything’s still dark, dark enough that maybe it’s not even morning yet, but then Claude notices the bright sunlight peeking in past the edges of the window shades, and he realizes it must be later than he thought. He hears the yip of a small dog coming from downstairs, or from somewhere else far away, and it all just reminds him that his head fucking kills, even still. He reaches an arm out to the other side of the bed, presses his palm unthinkingly into the cold sheets before he even realizes what he’s doing, and then squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep when that doesn’t make him feel any better.

Claude’s alone. He always thought that being bonded meant he never would be, but the only thing he’s feeling that he doesn’t think is coming from himself is a static noise—a static _feeling_ —of calmness. It’s like hearing sound from underwater: it’s there, but it’s not the same, and Claude wonders if that means something’s wrong, if it’s just the concussion or if something’s wrong with the bond, and it’s strange but he doesn’t really want it to be either.

Claude slowly swings his legs over the side of the mattress, trying not to bother his head too much, and that’s when he notices the Tylenol and Gatorade that are sitting on the dresser. He doesn’t know why they’re there, doesn’t remember Danny saying anything about it, but he can’t imagine it’s for anyone else; he decides to chance it and walks unsteadily over, takes three painkillers and downs half the bottle of Gatorade, and then closes his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose when the movement makes his head spin.

Afterwards, he heads to the bathroom, eyes squinted as he trails his fingers along the wall for balance. Along the way, he accidentally opens the door to the closet first, and it’s surprising, just how much clothing two men can own. Claude hardly owns any, from what he remembers, just from lack of interest, and now apparently he has so much that can’t even tell which side is his. He tries his hardest not to think about it, focuses on the static calm in his head instead, and then focuses on it again when he gets to the bathroom and can’t remember which toothbrush is his. He braces his weight on the sink as he brushes his teeth with barely opened eyes, doesn’t bother attempting to wash his face, and then heads back out into the bedroom, changes into the clothing that Danny left on the bed.

He knows he shouldn’t, because he shouldn’t be snooping around and picking up anything that he sees lying around, but Claude can’t help himself when he picks up the Giroux Flyers t-shirt that’s draped over the armchair in the corner. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but playing in the NHL has always been his dream, even though for the longest time, he never thought it would actually happen. But this shirt is _proof_ that not only did Claude get drafted, but he _played_ , and no one can take that away from him. He runs one thumb back and forth over the X, staring at his name and number in such disbelief, and everything else just falls away for a long moment. He’s not sure how long he stands there for before his stomach growls and shakes him out of his stupor. He tosses the shirt back onto the chair, and as he does, he almost thinks he sees—

No. No, that doesn’t make sense.

Claude reaches back out and straightens out the shirt with his fingertips, but there it is: the C. And that’s just—that’s a joke, that’s got to be a joke, because Claude’s not—Claude’s not _captain_ , not of an NHL team. He’s only eighteen, and the idea that he has that much responsibility on his back, an entire _organization_ placing that much trust and faith in him, it’s just—it’s a lot. It’s too much. Claude not that guy, not yet, but there are people out there who think he is, and expect him to keep being that, and what if Claude never remembers all the things that he forgot? What if he’s stuck like this, living with some stranger’s family, bonded to someone he doesn’t know for the rest of his life? What if forgetting everything affects his hockey? What if his head never gets better, memories or not, if his _concussion_ never gets better, and he never gets to play again? Suddenly it’s like he can’t breathe, like his shirt is too snug across his shoulders, and his skin is heating up, and it’s just unbearable, pinpricks of color making their way across everything he sees, and he thinks he’s going to be sick, thinks—

_Claude_.

His clenches his jaw and tries to get Danny out of his head, just for once so he can go back to being alone, but then he hears it again, still calm but this time more insistent and not in his head, “ _Claude_.”

Someone touches him lightly on his shoulder, over his t-shirt except for where their pinky touches the skin on the back of his arm, and just like that, the weight is gone, off of his chest, and he’s left standing there, taking giant, heaving breaths, trying to get his heart rate back to normal. He feels sick, his stomach turning, and when he opens his eyes, the bedroom lights make him feel so much worse that he immediately squeezes them shut again.

“You’re okay, Claude,” Danny’s saying, because of course it’s Danny. “Just breathe. You’re okay, you’re alright.” His thumb is swiping back and forth over the top of Claude’s bicep, right over the cotton of his shirt, and Claude wants it to be on his skin more than almost anything.

He almost says that to Danny, too, but then he stops himself and instead says, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s alright,” Danny says. Claude can feel his worry, steady and strong, but there’s no uncertainty in anything that Danny’s feeling. “We’ll get you to the bathroom, you’re alright.”

He leads Claude to the bathroom with the fingertips of one hand barely grazing the back of Claude’s shirt, careful to not touch him too intimately, and all Claude can think about are Danny’s kids, the three boys he saw downstairs, the ones that are in some way his now, too. Danny’s talking to Claude like he’s one of them—not like Claude’s a kid, but like Claude is someone that he loves, and Claude can’t help but wonder if he speaks back to the four of them like that, too.

He feels the cold tile under his feet before he even realizes that they’re back to the bathroom, and when he cracks one eye open, he notices that Danny kept all the lights off this time. There’s still more than Claude needs to see by streaming in through the window, and when Danny notices him glance quickly to and away from the window, he goes to lower the shades.

Claude tracks Danny and the movement of the shades with his eyes, and he’s not blaming Danny for it, but how fast everything happens makes his head spin a little, and his stomach turn. It feels like he’s going to be sick any second, everything backing up in his chest and in his throat, and he drops unsteadily to his knees by the toilet. Danny helps him, with one hand around Claude’s elbow to make sure he doesn’t fall too hard, and when Claude _is_ sick, almost immediately, Danny brushes his hair back off of his forehead, even though it’s not nearly long enough to get in the way.

Claude stays there for a long minute afterwards, focusing on the feel of Danny’s fingers carding through his hair rather than the cold of the tile on his legs, but now that it’s out of his system, he doesn’t think he’ll be sick again. He tries to get the acidic taste out of his mouth by spitting into the toilet, but that doesn’t help much, and so he accepts the cup of water that Danny offers him, filled from the bathroom sink.

Danny’s not touching him, not anymore, but everything he’s feeling for Claude still kind of makes it feel like he is.

“You feel any better?” Danny asks, his mind cataloging everything that he sees, _So pale, dark circles, sorry, sorry, the light_. “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” Claude responds, an honest answer to both questions, because he still feels like shit, even if he doesn’t think he’ll throw up again, and there’s nothing Danny can get him that’ll fix that.

“You’ll get better,” Danny tells him. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but you’ll get there.”

Claude wants to believe that, but he just doesn’t, and can’t imagine how this could ever possibly fix itself. Danny does, though, and can, and so Claude tries to smile at him, to reassure him in some small fraction of the way he’s trying to reassure Claude.

“Okay,” he says, and then, just for a minute, he sits there and feels Danny feel.

 

Claude’s not really up for much, after that. It’s embarrassing, being sick around strangers, and a large part of him just wants to crawl back into bed and stay there until he remembers everything, until his head stops hurting, and until being around Danny feels normal rather than new.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Danny says, tersely, and for a second, Claude wonders if Danny was able to get all that through the bond. “Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Claude answers honestly, and he closes his eyes for a second, tries to get everything under control and ignore the _stop it, stop it, it’s fine, the bond’s fine,_ that’s rolling off of Danny in waves. “I’m sorry,” he adds, not for thinking it but for upsetting Danny.

“It’s okay,” Danny says. “I know that you—it’s okay.”

Danny helps Claude stand up after that, before Claude has a chance to respond, and Claude lets him, even though he’s pretty sure he could do it himself, with one hand on the edge of the sink for balance. His head rushes, but when he’s standing, he can finally see past the stars to find himself in the mirror, and he actually has to do a double take because for a second he thinks someone else is there in the bathroom with them.

“That’s…” Claude says, and he blinks long and hard, careful not to shake his head too much. When he opens his eyes again, he’s still standing there with this long, awful hair, haphazardly parted in the middle, broader shoulders and tanner skin than he ever remembers having. Everything about him is new, still him but somehow just older—wider and darker and just _different_ —and Claude can hardly even recognize himself, can hardly look away.

He’s not a boy anymore. He looks like a man, like someone an NHL team might put faith in, like someone who can get hit hard and still be expected to hit back. He looks like someone that maybe Danny could actually want, and the thought drives him crazy, although he doesn’t like thinking about why.

“Claude?” Danny asks softly, and Claude shakes his head minutely, his throat backed up with all the things he wants to say, or that Danny wants to say.

It doesn’t make any sense, and Claude knows it doesn’t, but a part of him still hates this Claude, older Claude, for getting all the things he’s ever wanted—a career in the NHL, a family of his own, someone like Danny—and being reckless enough to lose it all with one bad hit.

“Nothing,” Claude says, and Danny doesn’t press it, just thinks, _hate this, feel better, can’t even do anything, love you._

“Okay,” he says instead of vocalizing what he’s thinking. “C’mon, let’s get you downstairs and get you something to eat.”

Claude thinks about sitting across the table from Danny, wonders if he has a certain seat that he always sits in, if Danny will expect him to talk. He says, “I’m not hungry.”

Danny smiles small, like he knows what Claude’s doing, and says, “You haven’t eaten since before the game. The boys are at school, so you don’t even have an excuse to hide.”

Claude doesn’t really know what to say to that, because honestly, he wasn’t even thinking about the boys, just Danny. He doesn’t want to admit that, though, so instead he shrugs and lets Danny walk with him down the stairs. Danny doesn’t try to help him, just lets Claude rest his weight on the railing and do it himself, and so at least there’s that.

When they get to the kitchen, Claude sees the fat bulldog sleeping in a patch of sunlight by the sliding glass door to the back deck, and he remembers the dog, but not her name. He’s so distracted by trying to remember it that he doesn’t realize another dog is walking up to him until she’s is jumping up and placing her paws on Claude’s leg, startling him into losing his balance. He leans heavily into Danny’s shoulder, just to stay standing.

“Zora,” Danny scolds lightly, hooking his foot under her belly and gently moving her out of the way. Then, to Claude, “And you met Zoey last night. Just ignore them.”

“Okay,” Claude says after a beat, because he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond to that or not. His first billet family had dogs, but they were massive and would drool on his thigh when they thought he would give them table scraps, not like these little ones that weigh less than his first gear bag. He wonders if Zoey and Zora are his, or if they just came with the house and the family, too.

Claude looks around the kitchen to the table, and then closer, at the stools by the breakfast bar. There are some school textbooks spread out on top of both, along with a whole bunch of other things that belong to the boys—a street hockey ball, a Game Boy, a baseball hat that’s been written on with Sharpie—just things that Claude thinks he could probably still find back at billets, but that are missing from the bedroom upstairs.

It’s surreal, he thinks, to have more in common with a bunch of kids than the person he’s bonded to. He tries not to think about it.

“Grab a seat,” Danny tells him, and he leaves Claude thinking, _eggs maybe, not hungry, protein, simple, feel like shit._ He pulls out a barstool as he walks past into the kitchen, and although he doesn’t help Claude to it, doesn’t even seem to be paying Claude any attention, Claude still feels like Danny’s watching him like a hawk, still knows that he is.

Claude watches Danny’s back as he grabs a skillet and cracks open some eggs. He’s not tall, not broad by any means, but he looks strong, the way the way the muscles of his shoulders pull his shirt taut, and the way his hands move around the kitchen like they know what they’re doing.

Claude feels self-conscious, and a little bit embarrassed, and he wonders if that's actually him. He hates that he can't tell.

“Do you want orange juice?” Danny asks after clearing his throat. “Or something else besides water?”

“No,” Claude says, but it’s all bullshit because Danny should already know what he wants. That’s how bonds work. Claude knows that, but tries not to think about it, because if something’s fucked up with the bond, he doesn’t know where else he’d stay. Danny said everything was fine, but that doesn’t mean it is. Maybe Claude would get a hotel, weather this whole concussion out, or stay with another teammate that he doesn’t know. Maybe he’d go back home, back to Hearst.

He suddenly misses his mom so much that his chest aches with it.

“You okay?” Danny asks, looking over his shoulder. He’s always asking that, and Claude’s never okay.

“Can I call my mom, after this?” Claude looks away from Danny when he asks, looks at the pictures stuck to the fridge until it makes his head throb, and then rests his forehead on the heel of his palm, propped up by his elbow, as he stares down at the granite.

“Of course,” Danny says evenly, like he’s not surprised by Claude’s request. And why should he be?

“Okay,” Claude says, just to fill the silence.

“She called this morning,” Danny tells him. “I talked to her last night, just to make sure she knew what was going on, but she’d still rather hear from you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

And Claude should’ve seen it coming, but the fact that Danny knows his mom well enough to call her still catches him off guard. He wants to ask what she said, but gets distracted by how Danny scrapes a small pad of butter over one slice of the wheat toast, and then piles the scrambled eggs on top. He squirts a little ketchup on the eggs, and then covers the sandwich with the other piece of dry toast. It's exactly how Claude makes his egg sandwiches; he hates that, and then wonders how Danny takes his eggs.

Danny turns around and places the plate in front of Claude, along with a little store-bought fruit salad. He smiles, small but sure.

"Oh," Claude says, looking down at his plate. "Thanks."

"No problem," Danny tells him, placing his hands on the edge of the countertop. He'd rather be touching Claude, but that doesn't show on his face, only in the way Claude's fingers itch to touch him back.

Claude squeezes his eyes shut, just for a second, to get his head under control. He doesn't want to talk about anything at all, but because he feels the need to break the silence, and because he would rather be alone, he asks, "Don't you have practice?"

"No," Danny says. "Not cleared, and it's just an optional skate, anyway. Eat your sandwich."

_I'm not a kid,_ Claude almost says, but he's only eighteen, and hasn't felt this young in a long time. What he actually asks is, "What do you mean, you're not cleared?"

"Nothing," Danny says. He’s thinking about Claude’s hit. "Don't worry about it."

Claude wants to press it, but doesn’t, and instead takes a tentative bite of his sandwich. It’s good, and he’s hungrier than he had realized, but he’s still worried about being sick again. He slouches forward, eats with his forearms braced against the counter, and tries not to look too much at Danny, because looking at Danny makes him feel embarrassed, or maybe nervous, sort of like the first time he told his dad he was skipping out on watching the Canadiens so that he could watch the Sabres, instead.

It’s not necessarily a _bad_ feeling, but it’s a lot to handle, and so Claude tries to avoid it.

 

Claude manages to eat only about half of what’s on his plate, and then he goes to lie down on the couch in the sitting room, phone in hand. The room looks really nice, but like it’s straight out of the pages of a magazine rather than part of a well lived-in home. Everything is in its place, no hockey gear or school stuff lying around, no dirty socks or video games, and Claude thinks he should like it the best because of that, but he doesn’t; he might not feel like he belongs in the rest of the house, but it doesn’t feel like _anybody_ belongs here, in this room, and he hates that.

He calls his mom with one arm slung over his eyes, to block out the light from the windows. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but the second she answers with a slightly frantic, “Claude?” he feels something in his chest loosen, feels it twofold from Danny.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, letting out a shaky exhale.

“ _Claude_ ,” she says again. “How are you? Are you okay?”

Her voice is so familiar, a lifeline in this sea of newness, even after all these years that Claude has missed. It’s strange, how he called her for comfort, and yet hearing her worry just makes him want to comfort her instead.

“I’m fine,” he says, and right then, it feels mostly true. “I’m just—it’s a lot. To handle.”

“I talked to Danny last night,” she tells him. “He told me about the hit. Do you remember it at all?”

“Not really. I don’t even remember him. Just... from tv.”

She must hear the hesitancy in his voice, because she reassures him, “He’s good to you, Claude. Good _for_ you. He’s everything I could have wanted for you.”

“Yeah,” Claude says, mostly just acknowledgement that he heard her more than anything else. Danny’s not there to hear him, but he’ll probably _feel_ it, anyway, so Claude doesn’t know why he bothers lowering his voice. “But I don’t _know_ him. I don’t even remember being drafted.”

“I know,” she says, and she doesn’t, not really, but Claude appreciates it anyway. “Tell me about your head and then I’ll tell you about Danny.”

And Claude just—he doesn’t want to talk about his head, but he wants to know about Danny in ways that he can’t control, like what makes him smile and what it’s like to kiss him, and what kind of tv shows he watches religiously, and which he watches just because he’s bored. He wants to know if he and Danny go good together on the ice, although he’s too embarrassed to bring it up himself. So he says, “The concussion isn’t that bad. I mean, it is, but. Lights are bad; quick movement’s bad. I feel sick all the time, but a lot of that is just how I can’t tell what’s me and what’s not.”

“Have you eaten?”

“A little,” he says. “Danny made us egg sandwiches.”

And that—it’s only once he says it that he realizes it’s a lie. Danny didn’t make egg sandwiches; Danny only made _one_ egg sandwich, just for Claude, and maybe that shouldn’t matter, but something in it still feels huge. His heart picks up speed, a little, and he feels Danny relaxing, calm as he picks up after the boys in the other room.

His mother hums, and says, “When you first bonded, he was a wreck.”

“Oh,” Claude says. He knows he’s not exactly the dream bondmate, but. But Danny kind of was his, before they actually met.

“Not like that,” she says, reading him in the way only a mother can. “But he was so scared, and you just… You took care of it. Took care of him. Even though you were so young.”

“I’m young _now_ ,” Claude tells her. “Mom, I’m only—I feel _eighteen_.”

“Eighteen or eighty,” she says, “you had fit right in with him and the kids, like you belonged there. And you do.”

Claude laughs a little self-deprecatingly and says, “I’m freaking out.”

“Well, things are different now. Back then, you were learning each other; now it’s maybe a little uneven.”

Claude nods, although she can’t see it, and thinks about all the things he wants to say: _I think the bond is broken,_ and, _I don’t know how to be with someone like him_ , and, _What do I even bring to the table?_ He thinks about asking if he likes Philly, if he likes being captain, if he’s happy here, on this team and in this family. He doesn’t feel very happy now, mostly just feels sick, his head starting to throb the more he thinks about everything. Danny’s thinking about taking the dogs on a walk. Claude presses the crook of his elbow harder against his face, as if there were any more light to block out, as if that would make him feel better.

“I don’t want to be bonded,” Claude whispers, his voice thick and his eyes stinging.

“Yes, you do,” she responds immediately. “And you want it with him, too.”

Claude doesn’t have an answer to that, or a response, and so he doesn’t say anything. His mom doesn’t say anything either, and for the longest time, they just sit there together, both of them on the phone but leading their own lives. Claude shifts on the pillows, listens to the sound of her loading the dishwasher, feels Danny curse under his breath as he bumps into a coffee table.

“I’m looking at flights,” his mom finally says, breaking the silence. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“No,” Claude says, before he even realizes he’s talking. “No, I don’t—it’s okay.”

He doesn’t know why he even says that, because he _does_ want her there, but he also knows that that response is coming solely from himself. Maybe he doesn’t want to see how she’s changed; maybe he wants to keep thinking she’s the one thing that hasn’t.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing. “I gotta go, though, okay? My head.”

“Okay,” she says. “I love you. Call me if anything changes, or if you just want to talk.”

“Alright,” Claude says, and then he hangs up. He lies there for another minute longer, and the longer he does, the more he doesn’t want to. He sits up, and the room spins, but once it stops, he stumbles over to the living room.

Danny smiles, happy and cautious and surprised, _so pale, resting so much, the boys_. Claude doesn’t smile back because he doesn’t want to, even though he feels like he does, and instead drops himself down on the open loveseat.

He’s not tired enough to nap, not really, but he lies there with his eyes shut, anyway, and just shares the space and the air with Danny. He tries to ignore the love and the worry and the _love_ that Danny doesn’t for one second stop feeling, but it’s hard, and after a while, he just gives up and tries to focus on his own breath instead.

 

By the time the boys come home, Claude’s back upstairs in the bedroom, just having woken up from another nap and trying to somehow stave off boredom. He still can’t read or watch tv, or else his head will start to pound.

There’s a loud thud from downstairs, followed by peals of laughter and video game music that’s immediately lowered, and that’s how Claude knows the kids are there. He doesn’t really want to talk to them—doesn’t really know what he’d even say, or what he is to them—but he doesn’t want to just sit around, either.

Claude still feels Danny, his worry and his love, his impatience over something, but it’s all quiet, somehow, and Claude can breathe. He sits up and then waits another few minutes, just testing his head, but when nothing happens, he finally leaves the bedroom and makes his way downstairs on unsteady feet. He’s a little dizzy with each step, but if he leans his weight on the railing, it’s not bad.

When he makes it down to the bottom of the steps, there’s a short hallway that he has to walk down, and then he sees them, sprawled out on the couches. The boys don’t notice him at first, not until Zora hears him moving and starts barking; the barks are loud, and they split Claude’s head in two, but luckily the dog quiets down when she sees that it’s just him. It makes Claude regret coming down, but by then the boys have seen him, and it’s too late for him to go back upstairs.

“G!” one of the boys says. They pause the game and then spring into action, clearing off space on the couch and speaking one on top of the other, _Sit down_ , and, _Are you hungry?_ and, _Did you find the Tylenol? Do you need anything?_

Claude just says, “No, I’m…” and then trails off, looking at them. It’s a lie, anyway, to say that he’s fine, and so he doesn’t know why he even started to say it.

He sits down in the seat closest to him, in part because it means less walking, and in part because the oldest boy guides him there. Then, after a pause where the three of them just glance awkwardly at one another, the youngest finally says, “So, you don’t remember us?”

“No,” Claude answers truthfully, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He wonders where Danny is, feels anxious without Danny, and then angry with himself for letting the bond make him feel that way.

“At all?”

“No,” Claude says again. They look crestfallen, and Claude doesn’t want them to feel like that, but he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say to comfort them because he doesn’t _know_ _them_. “I remember hearing your dad talk about you in interviews,” he offers.

“Oh,” the oldest says. Then, “I’m Caelan; I’m your favorite.”

“That’s not _funny_ ,” the youngest hisses, and Claude doesn’t need the introduction to know that’s Cameron. He remembers hearing Danny in interviews, saying, _Cameron takes after my wife_ , and the boy in front of him doesn’t look like at all like Danny. Danny’d talk about them all the time, though, like they were the best things in the world, and Claude would listen through tinny speakers and wonder what it would’ve been like, if only he were a little older and met Danny before he got married. And that’s—

_Married_. Danny was _married_ , last Claude remembers, and he doesn’t know how that hasn’t come up yet. He can’t stand the thought that maybe he got caught in the middle of that, just wedged his way in between Danny and his wife, ruining this family just by being drafted to Philly. It makes Claude feel sick to his stomach, to think that he could’ve been that person.

“It’s _kind of_ funny,” Carson, the middle child, is saying, when Claude turns his attention back to them. “Claude knows we’re joking; we’re just trying to be normal, like Dad said.”

“Yeah, but what if he _doesn’t_ know?” Cam points out. “He doesn’t even remember us.”

“I’m fine,” Claude interrupts, out of nowhere feeling like nothing is more important than to make sure that they know that, so they don’t have to worry. “I’m fine, and everything should come back soon, so we just have to—we just have to sit tight.” And Claude just—he’s just so, so tired. He doesn’t know what they want from him, doesn’t even know who he _is_ to them, and the thought of having to figure that out just exhausts him. He’s not old enough to have kids. His eyes flick to the tv, to the paused video game and the bright colors and the bright lights, and it makes his head hurt. He asks, “Hey, where’s, uh. Where’s your dad?”

“Out with Zoey,” Caelan says. “Just in the backyard. Hartsy picked him up earlier and took him to fill your prescriptions, though, if you need them.”

“Oh,” Claude says. He didn’t know he was given any prescriptions.

“We’d go get them for you,” Cam offers, “but you and Dad don’t like us touching them, because they’re like, really strong painkillers and stuff.”

“Oh,” Claude just says again. He guesses that Hartsy is Hartnell, just over from the Preds, but honestly, he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care. His head’s still pounding from the tv. “Why didn’t he drive himself?”

“After a hit like that?” Caelan asks, and then he rolls his eyes, adds, “He couldn’t even leave the house without wearing those really dumb sunglasses, like the kind they give you at the doctor’s.”

“He said he was okay,” Claude says dumbly, but Danny did say he wasn’t cleared for skate. Claude blinks blankly for a minute and then sits up, but the movement just makes him feel worse; it comes and goes. He presses his palms into his closed eyes and tries to breathe.

“I mean, he’s _fine_ , G,” Caelan assures him, voice quiet.

“Are _you_ fine?” Carson asks, and Claude shakes his head the barest amount.

“He just feels a little of what you’re feeling,” Caelan continues. “It’s not like—he’s _fine_ , not like you; he doesn’t actually have anything wrong with him. Like, last time it was the dizziness, this time it’s the light. It’ll go away; it’s fine.”

_Last time,_ Claude repeats in his head. _This time._

“It’s happened before?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Cam says, in part like it’s obvious, and in part like he doesn’t like talking about it. “It’s hockey.”

“You’re _bonded_ ,” Caelan reminds him. “That’s how it works.” They’re all speaking so quietly, like maybe they’re afraid to startle him, or like they think talking any louder will make Claude worse. Or make their dad worse. It makes them seem older than they actually are, and Claude tries to think back to when he was their age, but his brain won’t cooperate. After a long moment of silence, Caelan quietly adds, “I’d say open a book, but—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Cam tells him, sounding upset again, and it’s just— Claude knows they mean well, but they’re just kids, and it’s exhausting.

“Hey, hey,” Claude says, just that, because he doesn’t know what to say next.

“Sorry,” Cam says meekly, and then they all fall silent.

Before he has the chance to say anything else, Claude hears a door sliding open, followed by the click of dog nails on the tile floor.

“Hey,” he hears Danny say to the dog. “No sticks inside.”

And Claude’s not there, but he can see it all so perfectly in his head, the granite countertops covered in clutter, the stools at the breakfast bar, and the way Zoey stands, almost off-balance when she’s carrying a massive stick.

He blinks, trying to clear the image.

“Claude?” Danny asks. Claude blinks again, and Danny’s right there, suddenly standing on the other side of the couch. He looks just like he did earlier in the morning, only now that Claude’s more awake, and not in the middle of panicking, he can see just how much Danny looks like everything that Claude likes, his dark hair and his dark eyes, the softness of his smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Claude says. “I’m fine.”

Quietly, under his breath, Caelan says, “That’s the lie of the century,” and Danny shoots him a look.

“Let me get you some water, okay?” Danny says. He doesn’t seem to even be thinking about it when he reaches out and touches the skin of Claude’s arm, just past his shirt sleeve. It’s not even an intimate touch—just the backs of two fingers pressed against Claude—but it still makes Claude stiffen, just for a second, because he’s not expecting it and because Danny’s a stranger.

“Okay,” Claude says, at the same time that Danny pulls his hand back.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Claude tries to insist, although he knows it’s not.

The kids are staring at him with wide eyes, like they’ve never seen him before. Claude doesn’t know what happened, feels like he’s missing out on something big.

Carson says, “We were supposed to go to Mom’s tonight, but, um. I think we’re just going to stay here this weekend.”

“Carson,” Danny starts.

“Dad,” Caelan interrupts. “Claude’s _hurt_.”

“Yeah,” Cam agrees. “He need us.”

“It’s okay,” Claude reassures them, because he’s not so sure what he’d do with three kids even if his head wasn’t killing him. “I have the doctors, and—and your dad to help me with cooking and stuff, and—”

“Claude,” Cameron says, like it’s obvious. “I don’t mean for that kind of stuff; I just meant for like, to have your family around.”

And that just—the words are so simple, so honest, and they sit on Claude’s chest like a ten-pound weight. He wonders if that’s coming from him, or across the bond from Danny.

“Oh,” he says around the lump in his throat, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Danny says, echoing his sentiment, and something in that makes Claude want to thank him, although he doesn’t know why.

 

They ask Claude if he wants to play cards after dinner, or maybe Monopoly, and that catches him off guard, because he doesn’t know how to say no without being rude, doesn’t know if maybe even Danny expects him to say yes. Maybe that’s something he would’ve done before, after a hit like that. He doesn’t know, doesn’t really know how to navigate family time with a family that isn’t his.

“Oh,” Claude starts. “Um.”

“Boys,” Danny says, stacking Claude’s hardly touched plate on top of his. They didn’t have anything fancy, just an average hockey meal of chicken and pasta, but it was good. _Sorry, I’m not really much of a cook,_ Danny had said, but Claude knew it for what it really was— _You usually do the cooking_ —and ate as much as he could. “Claude’s not feeling well; he’s probably not up for games.”

“But it’s just cards!” Caelan says, defending his idea.

“Yeah,” Carson agrees. “It’s hardly any reading.”

“I know,” Danny says, nodding like he agrees, too. He keeps stacking plates, and the sound rings loud in Claude’s ears. He’s so tired, and Danny must realize how worn out Claude feels, because he stops what he’s doing to reach for Claude’s painkillers instead. He passes two over, and Claude accepts them wordlessly. “Maybe when he’s feeling a little better.”

“Um, yeah, I think I’m just going to go to sleep,” Claude says with a little bit of a shrug, and even though he’s been lazing about all day, he’s still kind of tired. He’d be worried, sleeping so much, but he knows how his body reacts to concussion, and it’s always like this the first day or so.

“Do you need help getting upstairs?” Cam asks, and he leans a little bit into Claude’s side. Claude tries his hardest not to get uncomfortable with that, he really does, and thankfully, before it shows on his face, Danny pulls Cam back upright by his shirtsleeve.

“No crushing the patient, please,” he deadpans, and Claude wonders if Danny can feel how grateful he is for it.

“I wasn’t,” Cam says. Claude smiles at him, a little awkwardly, just to show he’s not upset, and then he stands up, nearly losing his balance as the blood rushes from his head.

He reaches out, not for anything in particular, and Danny steadies him with one hand wrapped around Claude’s forearm, _he’s tired, be okay, hey, hey._ Danny’s hands are warm, rough in all the same places Claude’s are, and when he touches Claude’s skin, Claude feels all the dizziness fall away. Claude feels warm, when Danny touches him like that, just one hand wrapped around his forearm, and he feels safe, feels loved.

_Get better,_ Danny’s thinking. _The boys, for me, I need._

Danny pulls back before Claude realizes he wants him to, and then says to the boys, “You three clean up, alright? I’m going to get Claude to bed.”

“But I said I wanted to!” Cam protests, and Danny smiles small, makes Claude feel that warmth somewhere deep in his chest.

“I’m sure Claude’ll let you help him tomorrow,” Danny says.

Claude doesn’t want anyone to help him, no matter who they are, but he doesn’t say that.

“Fine,” Cam says, clearly unhappy with the decision, and Claude wonders if maybe he just has Youngest Child Syndrome, or if maybe Claude’s closer to him than to the other two.

Danny does the same thing he's done all day, walks carefully with him up the stairs, sure not to touch Claude or help him if he doesn't need it, or doesn't ask for it. They walk in silence until they get up to the landing, and then walk just as quietly to the bedroom Claude's staying in. Danny walks him right up to the doorway, but doesn't try to go in.

"You need anything?" he asks, and Claude shakes his head once, slowly and with care.

"No." He thinks he knows where his clothes are, for tomorrow, and mostly just needs a t-shirt for tonight.

"Alright," Danny says, searching Claude's face for something. Maybe he finds it, or maybe he doesn't; either way, he says softly, "Goodnight, Claude."

"Goodnight," Claude says, and feels guilty about it, although he doesn't know why. He wants so badly to ask Danny how they met, to ask about his wife, to ask him to stay. And then, just as Claude’s turning into the room, he stops and the words slip out: “It’s weird how much they like me.”

“How much who likes you?” Danny asks, his confusion genuine across the bond.

“No one,” Claude says quickly. He’s thinking about the divorce, doesn’t want to think about the divorce, doesn’t want Danny to be thinking about the divorce. “Never mind.”

He tries to duck into the room, feeling dumb, so dumb, only the embarrassment is gradually being washed out by surprise, by disbelief, by guilt and _should’ve told him more, should’ve, fuck, messed up, be careful._

“Claude,” Danny says, incredulous. “They _love_ you.”

A beat, and then, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Danny says, his smile so small and fragile and real. _They love you, they love you, they love you, love you, I love you._

“Oh,” Claude says again, for a different reason entirely.

“Get some rest,” Danny tells him quietly, and Claude’s still just so taken aback that he goes wordlessly.

Shutting the door behind him, Claude slips out of his shorts and crawls into bed. He feels Danny loving him, missing him—the other him, the one that remembers—but before frustration can overtake the lightheaded way he’s feeling now, he slips into sleep.

When he wakes up, it's the middle of the night. He checks the clock on the end table, its green lights cutting through the darkness and going straight for his head, and it says it's just past three; he's been sleeping for somewhere around eight hours, he thinks, but he can't be sure.

He reaches out for his glass of water, but his hand hits air. Claude squints, trying to find it, but there's nothing there, not that he can see. He's awake enough, he thinks, that he can make it to the bathroom sink. He's well enough for that.

Claude rolls out of bed and lands heavily on his feet, stumbling for a second until he reaches out and grabs the side of the mattress for balance. He doesn't feel too sick, miraculously, just tired and disoriented, but instead of making his way to the bathroom, he wobbles across to the other side of the bedroom, almost tripping over the clothes he left on the floor as he does.

The hallway is dark and empty, and as he squints both ways trying to remember where the stairs are, one of the doors at the other end opens up, and Zoey pokes her head out. She waddles over to him, and then mashes her face against his calf, and so Claude holds onto the doorjamb for balance, scratches her behind one ear. She doesn't stay long, and when she walks away, Claude can hear her thump down the stairs to the kitchen.

Claude doesn’t follow, and instead looks at the door right across the hall. The guest room. Danny said he’d be there.

Claude doesn’t mean to, and it doesn’t mean anything, but his lets his hand drop from the doorjamb and crosses the few steps to the guest bedroom. He quietly pushes open the door, and Danny’s there, asleep in the bed, the sheets messy from tossing and turning, the rest of the room mostly empty save for a dresser and a beanbag chair. Danny’s on his side, turned away from Claude, but the curve of his shoulder is some strange mix of foreign and familiar, and it settles something in Claude that he didn’t even know he was feeling.

Just looking at him, Claude feels better.

Maybe he makes some noise, or the bond does something, but Danny rolls over and squints at him, hardly even awake.

“Claude?” he says, his voice thick. “You okay?”

Claude can’t tell whether or not Danny remembers about the concussion, or if he’s in the sort of sleepy haze where he still thinks Claude is _his_ Claude. Either way, Claude says, “I’m fine.”

Danny nods a little and then says, “Come back to bed.” He rolls back over and pulls back the sheets on the empty side of the bed as he does, as clear an invitation that Claude should climb in as anything. Claude wants to, sort of, but he doesn’t really feel comfortable with the idea, either, and so he shuts the door behind himself, crosses the room, and lies down on the beanbag chair.

It’s nice, something about it a lot nicer than the bed was, and Claude slips easily back into sleep, listening to the cadence of Danny’s breathing on the other side of the room.

 

The next time Claude wakes up, it’s to a tentative hand on his shoulder and Danny saying, “Claude. Hey, Claude.”

Claude doesn’t know what’s going on, but he likes the feel of Danny’s hand on him, warmth seeping in and reaching Claude through his t-shirt, making him feel at once grounded and weightless. Danny’s smiling softly in hello, and when he sees that Claude is awake, he begins to pull his hand away. Claude doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, just brings his own hand up to wrap his fingers around Danny’s wrist and keep him where he is.

Danny doesn’t seem to mind, but Claude’s embarrassed the second he realizes what he’s doing. He lets go of Danny’s wrist and mutters, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Danny says, like it’s that easy, and all Claude can feel is love and gratitude and exhaustion. His shoulder feels cold where Danny’s hand had been. “You should move to the bed.”

Claude takes a second before responding, grateful that Danny doesn't ask what he's doing there. He uses the time to wake up, and uses his sluggishness as an excuse to study Danny’s face, the bend in his nose and the stubble on his cheeks, the bags beneath his eyes. He looks so much older than what Claude is used to seeing on tv, but just as attractive. A part of Claude still wonders what it would be like to kiss him—and he’s been wondering that for a long time—but now, something about it makes Claude feel unsettled, not because he wants it any less, but because Danny already knows what it’s like to kiss him back.

“Claude?” Danny prompts again, a flush high on his cheeks, his thoughts, _Claude, my Claude, the boys, so shy._

“Oh,” he says. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, making himself sick and dizzy in the process. Danny reaches out a hand and presses the backs of his fingers against Claude’s shin, as if he knows that Claude would prefer that over a palm to the side of his neck, and the touch leaves his head feeling cool, like putting aloe on a burn. The feeling sticks around even after Danny pulls away, and Claude tells him, “I'm fine; I've been sleeping forever.”

Danny pulls an apologetic face, but then says, “Alright." He smiles just enough to show a little teeth. “Come down whenever you’re ready; the boys are outside playing street hockey, so you don’t have to worry about them.”

“It was nice meeting them,” Claude says without thinking, meaning to reassure him, but immediately regrets it when Danny winces at the word _meeting_. “I mean, um.” He swallows, trying to find the words for the things he can’t even explain to himself. “They seem like nice kids. I liked them.”

“They are,” Danny tells him, “but I know they can be a lot to handle, sometimes.”

“They weren’t,” Claude lies, and the way Danny looks at him tells Claude that he knows it, too. Or maybe it’s not the way Danny looks, maybe it’s something in the bond. It’s hard to tell.

“Right,” Danny says, and this time, Claude can feel it, how skeptical he is, _Do I ask, don’t want to know, boys okay, worried, but Claude_. “Well, come on down whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Claude says, and Danny just looks at him for a beat longer before finally getting up. He pauses again at the door, smiling at Claude just a little, and then he’s gone.

Claude lets out a breath that he didn’t realize he was even holding in, and lies there for another minute longer. There are a couple of small styrofoam balls that somehow got out of the beanbag chair stuck to his shirt, and he brushes them off, tries not to think of all the questions he has— _How’s the sex? Did I ruin your marriage? Have we won a Stanley Cup?_ —that he’s mostly just too embarrassed to ask.

When he finally gets downstairs, after heading back to his closet to grab an old hockey longsleeve, he sees that Danny wasn’t lying; the house is empty, not even the dogs still inside, and Danny’s the only one there, looking at something on a computer.

“That doesn’t hurt your eyes?” Claude asks, before he even realizes he’s thinking about it.

Danny doesn’t startle, even though his back is to Claude and he hadn’t shown any sign of knowing Claude was there. Instead, he puts the laptop aside and turns around. “No,” he says. “Not really. Why would it?”

“You’re not cleared for skate,” Claude points out. It’s hard just standing there—not to the point that he can’t do it, but to the point that he doesn’t want to, worried that he might get dizzy—and he moves so he can lean against the wall. “The boys said you got some of my concussion.”

“I can’t just _get_ some of your concussion, Claude,” Danny says, a little like Caelan, but he says it so fondly. “Maybe I feel a little bit of what you feel, but it doesn’t work like that. My brain is fine. I kept playing after you got hit.”

“Oh,” Claude says. He thinks about his prescriptions. “Then why did Hartnell have to drive you yesterday?”

Danny looks surprised, just a little, to learn that Claude knows about that, and Claude feels like that’s a victory, over him and the bond and everything.

“Just in case,” Danny says. “To be safe.” He rubs one eye with the heel of his palm, and Claude doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows that’s just something Danny does habitually, rather than something he’s doing because he’s in pain. “A few years ago, you got hit. Not as bad, but… I thought I was fine, and Cameron and I went to run some errands, pick up some food for lunch...”

Claude feels his stomach sink, and he knows exactly what’s coming—through context clues, through the bond and how he feels nervous, jittery, and by the fact that Cameron’s _here_ , he’s _okay_ —but he’s still dreading hearing the rest of story.

“I got dizzy; we drove into the guardrail.”

And Claude just—he’s standing there, listening to Danny talk about crashing his car, about putting his son at risk because of something that happened to _Claude_ , and he just—

“I’m sorry,” he says, his heart racing. “I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Danny looks at him like maybe he doesn’t understand what he’s hearing, or like maybe he’s heard it all before and hearing it again makes him sad, and then he says, “It’s nothing for you to be sorry about, Claude. You didn’t do anything.”

Claude doesn’t answer, just thinks, _My fault, my hockey, hate seeing you hurt like this_.

"I'm going to get checked out tomorrow. I'll let you know," Danny says. He looks at Claude for a minute longer, and Claude looks right back, trying to figure him out, and trying to think of what he could possibly say to make everything make sense.

Danny licks his lips, and then says, “What do you want to do today? Do you want something to eat? Do you want some painkillers?” He thinks, _Nap, green juice, still looking so tired, still feeling so tired, still._

Claude’s not hungry, not at all, although he knows Danny’ll make him eat eventually. He doesn’t want to lie down, either, doesn’t want to rest, although maybe he probably should. He’s pushed himself too hard, too fast after a concussion before, and it never ends well. Outside, he hears a street ball hit something hard, and then the boys start yelling, too far and too hectic for Claude to be able to understand.

He misses that, playing street hockey. Misses being a kid and not worrying about anything but how late he can stay out.

“Can we go outside?” Claude asks. “Not to—not to play, but maybe… just to be out?”

Danny smiles, thinks, _Hockey, Claude, things never change_.

“I could go for the air,” he says, but he’s a hockey player, too, and he shouldn’t need the bond to know what Claude thinks when he hears the sound of a solid pass.

Claude’s glad he doesn’t mention it.

 

They walk down to the end of the long driveway and then back up the other side, carefully skirting around where the boys have taken over the pavement, and then they take a seat on the two lawn chairs that are already open in the grass. The chairs are close together, close enough that Claude wants to scoot his own over a little, but he doesn’t, in part because he’s unsteady on his feet, and in part because it’s Danny, Danny _Briere_ , and Claude doesn’t know him but he’s been watching Danny play for years.

Before all this, Claude would’ve given anything for all this to happen, and so he leaves the chairs where they are, allows himself to sit as close to Danny as he let himself back when he remembered.

“Hey, G, watch this!” Caelan hollers, and Claude winces at the sound. Danny wants to scold Caelan, or maybe apologize for him, but he ends up doing neither, and out on the driveway, Caelan takes off with the road ball on his tape and slaps it in with a pretty impressive spin-o-rama. Claude feels proud, watching him play.

“I don’t want to be goalie anymore,” Cam whines, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his chin jutted out in complaint.

Next to Claude, Danny’s elbow shifts on the armrest until it’s pressing into Claude’s; Danny’s skin is hot in the cool air, hot enough that Claude thinks he can feel the warmth though Danny’s shirt and through his own, and for one brief moment, everything that Claude _is_ narrows down to a few inches of elbow.

Danny’s not even thinking about it, Claude doesn’t think, not that he’s good at their bond or even sure that it’s even working properly at all. All Claude knows is that Danny’s elbow is pressed into his own, and Claude can barely move because of it. He thinks that maybe if he shifts at all, Danny’ll shift too, and he’ll lose this.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have a choice because you’re the youngest,” Carson says, and Danny still hasn’t moved his arm.

“No, you know the deal,” Danny mediates. “Everyone takes turns.”

“It’s better when Claude plays,” Cameron says. “Because then he’s always the goalie.”

Caelan slashes Cam lightly in the shin.

“Ow!” Cam yelps.

“Shut up about that,” Caelan tells him. “He’s _sick_.”

“Boys—” Danny interrupts, leaning forward and taking his elbow with him. And just like that, the past few minutes catch up to Claude and he can think clearly again.

“It won’t be forever,” Claude reassures them, but he’s not sure where that comes from, as he’s not so sure he believes it. Or, alternately, he knows exactly where it comes from, and just chooses not to acknowledge it. It feels to him like it _will_ be forever; feels to him like it already has been.

“Yeah, I know,” Cam says, and next to Claude, Danny thinks, _Won’t be forever, doesn’t matter even if, even if, but it won’t._

Claude doesn’t know if Danny knows that he thinks like that, so much all the time; he wonders what he thinks like to Danny, if it’s so much or too much, or disappointingly not enough at all.

When Danny leans back in his seat, the boys playing again, he waits through an awkward second of silence before telling Claude, “The boys always make you play goalie, and you let them. You love it, but only because it’s them.”

“Oh,” Claude says. He hates that Danny has to describe him to himself, and thinks, _Them, the boys, Danny’s boys, Caelan-Carson-Cameron, mine._

“They let you out on your birthday, though,” Danny continues, forcing the conversation because he wants Claude to remember badly enough. “And our bond day.” He looks over at Claude and smiles like he’s content, and it makes Claude realize that he’s been staring at Danny. Claude looks away quickly and can feel Danny’s disappointment. Or maybe it’s his own; Claude has always liked looking at Danny.

“When is that?” Claude asks as a peace offering. The boys laugh in the background.

“Our bond day? June twenty-fourth. Got married that winter.”

“Oh,” Claude says, and then because there’s an uncomfortable pressure building in his temples, he makes a joke in order to distract himself. “And my birthday?”

Danny doesn’t answer for a split second that lasts for eternity, panic crawling up his throat, _okay, it’s okay, part of the process, every bit helps Claude, Claude, okay, Claude_ —

“It’s January twelfth,” Danny says evenly, and every bit of Claude aches with how upset he is.

“Danny,” he says. He wants to reach out and put his hand on Danny’s knee, but he doesn’t and his body feels sore from it. “Danny, I was joking.”

Danny looks at him for one second, and the relief, when Claude feels it, is immense. Claude's head throbs as the feeling crashes over him, knocking the pressure loose from his temples and into the rest of his skull, but Danny smiles in a way that Claude’s never seen before, and Claude can’t look away; he’s so jealous of the him-that-remembers for being able to remember every time Danny has ever smiled at him like that.

“Oh,” Danny says, still smiling. He lets out a small breath of laughter and says, “Right, of course,” but thinks, _Still in there_. He looks at Claude like he’s remembering all the things Claude can’t, and Claude tries not to let it ruin the moment. Instead, he closes his eyes against the bright sunlight and rests his head back against the chair.

It’s unfair that Claude’s been in love with Danny for his entire life, when Danny’s in love with a him that’s someone else.

Claude tries to ignore the cold seeping in through his clothes, but he can’t. He came outside for the sound of hockey, but it’s so loud to him now that he just wants to head back inside to avoid it.

He was fine earlier, is the worst part. He thinks he was fine, after waking up on the beanbag chair, except for how he didn’t remember anything. He still doesn’t remember and is terrified that he never will, that he’ll never stop feeling like this, never stop thinking, _just like that, head aches, so fucking bright out, and Claude, are you alright, hey, Claude, where are_ —

“I’m here,” Claude says, but he’s not sure that he is.

"You are,” Danny confirms. His elbow slips off the armrest until it bumps gently into Claude’s, and then it stays there.

 

By the time they all head inside, Claude’s cold down to his bones, and the first thing he does is head to his room to shower. His feet are suddenly unsteady for some reason, like his ankles won’t hold him up, so he has to lean heavily on the handrail just to make it upstairs. _It’s just one foot in front of the other_ , Claude thinks. _Left foot, right foot, don’t let the boys see Claude like this, hot chocolate, where’s the hot chocolate, left foot—_

Claude stops and shakes his head roughly before he has the time to think twice about it; he’s just trying to get Danny out, to only think what he’s thinking for once, but the jerky movement causes black to creep in at the edges of his vision and so he shuts his eyes, tightens his grip on the railing so he doesn’t fall backwards.

“Fuck,” he says to himself. He’s swaying back and forth. “Fuck.”

When the hand comes to steady him, Claude’s almost expecting it; he doesn’t open his eyes, but lets himself be led blindly down the hall and into the bedroom. He knows all the turns already, just from the past few short days, or maybe from the seven long years that came before it, the lifetime of living here, of wanting Danny, of having him.

“Claude.” Claude hears as if from underwater. “Claude?”

Claude opens his eyes; he can’t see anything, but he can’t tell if it’s because the room is too dark, or too bright. His brain is thumping in his head, and he wants to sleep, wants a shower, _lasagna in the oven, Claude upstairs, keep it together, left foot, right foot_.

Claude drops himself heavily down onto the edge of the bed, or maybe he’s placed there. He wants a shower, he’s so cold. He wants to think straight. He wants to go home, he wants to _be_ home, he wants Danny. Fuck, he just wants Danny. He doesn’t _know_ Danny. He’s had concussions before, sure, but this is new, this feeling of being half a person, or maybe of being two people, existing both now and then, being both himself and someone he’s never met. That makes him more angry than anything else, that feeling.

“Claude.” It’s Carson. He’s standing right in front of Claude. “Stay right here, okay? I’m gonna go get Dad.”

“I’m okay,” Claude says. He’s lining up three mugs on the kitchen countertop. He's sinking right through the mattress and the kitchen tile is cold on the soles of his feet.

“I know,” Carson lies, but Claude doesn’t know whose benefit it’s for.

Carson tiptoes out of Claude's room and then thunders down the stairs, and Claude knows exactly when he gets to Danny because Claude's heart rate skyrockets. He wants this to stop, and Claude wants this to stop, he doesn't care, remember or not remember but he can't _do_ this, _hey, Claude, I'm here, hey_ —

Danny doesn't hesitate, just crouches down in front of Claude and wraps his warm fingers around the bare skin of Claude's wrist. It's strange, how Danny thinks so loudly until they're touching.

"Claude?" Danny says. It doesn't sound like the first time he's said it, and Claude wonders what else he's missed because everything was too loud for him to hear.

"I can't keep doing this," Claude says, and he can't remember the last time a concussion made him want to cry like this, can't remember the last time his head hurt like this. He can't remember anything, though, and that's the problem. “I was fine earlier.”

"I know, Claude. I know," Danny says, but he doesn't. He's fine and Claude is all over the place.

"You're so loud, all the time. You have to stop," Claude tells him, Danny's thumb on his pulse point, but Danny can't stop thinking just because Claude wants him to. "Why do people want this? I can't think straight."

Danny looks up at him. “It’s not supposed to be like that. It’s just the concussion; it’s messing up the way you filter through everything on your end. Dorsh said it would go away, remember?” But Claude doesn’t remember, and that’s the whole problem, the entire point of everything. He’s never had a concussion like this before, never had a bond to knock loose. Danny sounds helpless when he asks, "Are you cold?"

"Yes," Claude says.

"Okay," Danny says. He stands up and lets go of Claude's wrist, and walks over to the closet. _Claude, sweatshirt, left the burner on, clammy skin._ Danny's thinking again, now that they're not touching. He walks into the closet and heads to the left, and comes back out with a sweatshirt.

"Get me one of mine," Claude says. The one Danny’s holding isn’t; Claude’s clothes are on the right side.

Danny doesn't respond, just holds open the sweatshirt so Claude can see the GIROUX 28. It makes Claude blink. He thought—he was so sure that the right side—

He looks down at what he's wearing. There's a 48 written small and in the corner, and this morning, when he had put it on, Claude was certain that that number was his.

"I'm sorry," Claude says, but he's not. He's mad and embarrassed and frustrated and sick, but he's not sorry.

"Come on, let's get this on you," Danny says. "Or did you want to shower first?"

Claude wants to shower, but he won't; he can't trust himself standing up, doesn't trust Danny enough to help him. Or maybe—trust isn't the right word. Claude trusts Danny as much as he's ever trusted anybody, maybe more, but he doesn't know Danny, can't stress that enough—he _doesn't_ _know_ _Danny_ —and so he won't let Danny help him, isn't comfortable with the thought.

It's either the bond or the look on Claude's face that has Danny just handing the sweatshirt over, and when the collar gets stuck around Claude's head, Claude's fingers twitch with Danny's desire to reach out and help.

"I fucking hate this," Claude says, a lump in his throat. "You're too much."

Danny feels warm when Claude says that, although it doesn't make sense. He says, "You should take some of the prescription painkillers; I would’ve made you earlier, but I didn’t know how bad it was. Then see if you can get some sleep, okay?"

"Yeah," Claude says helplessly. He can't do much else. "Okay."

Danny heads over to the dresser and grabs the pill bottle sitting on top. _Two now, and two if you still feel like this in the morning,_ Danny thinks, and Claude says, "Okay."

Danny shakes two pills out into Claude's open hand, and Claude swallows them dry. They're gel capsules and don't taste like much of anything.

“I’m going to the rink tomorrow morning,” Danny says, _cold-home-hockey-Claude-doctors_ , “to meet with some of the staff. But you call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah,” Claude says, but he probably won’t, and Danny knows it.

But once Danny leaves, once it’s just Claude in the room and just Claude in the bed, the painkillers kick in enough that it’s almost like he can pretend it’s just Claude in his head, too. It’s not quite like that, because Claude still knows everything Danny’s doing downstairs and everything he’s thinking, but everything’s been turned down to a bearable level. Claude falls asleep that night to Danny nothing more than a soft, constant hum in the back of his mind, the painkillers working hard to keep the bond still and steady in the tumultuous sea of his thoughts.

 

Claude jerks awake the next morning, his heart pounding and his skin damp, stuck in that in-between phase of wakefulness where he doesn’t remember his dream, but still feels everything that accompanied it. He throws his hand out for his phone and accidentally sends it skittering across his end table, and then finds it by following the length of the charger cord with his fingertips, starting at the wall outlet. He rolls over onto one side, and his eyes are barely open, but panic is clawing its way up his throat, and he’s gotta get this text out, has to let Danny know that he didn’t mean any of it, because if he doesn’t—he just never thought, and Danny’s got to know that it was just out of frustration, he was never supposed to—

Claude pauses and looks at the screen of his phone. The light is bright in the darkness of his room, and he has to blink a few times before he can make out what he typed in the text box: _I’m sorry. Come with me. Ich liebe dich._

Claude blinks again. _Ich liebe dich._ German. _I love you._ He doesn’t know what the fuck that means, and even though everything about the dream is long since gone, his heart keeps pounding steadily in his chest because he doesn’t know what that means.

The silence in his head is stifling, the echo of his thoughts the only thing he can hear. Danny’s gone.

Danny’s _gone_.

It’s everything Claude’s ever wanted, ever since he stepped off the ice to find that he didn’t even know himself anymore, but now that Claude has it—

He wants it back. He wants Danny back in his head, but Danny’s gone and Claude feels cold and empty, everything he’s thinking echoing in the giant cavern of his mind, and _what the fuck was in those painkillers_ , Claude thinks. _What the fuck, what the fuck_.

Claude rolls out of bed and doesn’t bother getting dressed, just slips his feet into the slipper moccasins near the foot of the bed. Are they his? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters, and Claude’s heart is racing because Danny’s—

“Danny?” Claude calls out. The house is still and quiet, and Claude opens the bedroom door— his and Danny’s bedroom door— and calls out again, louder, “Danny?”

There’s nothing, of course there’s nothing. Danny’s at the rink and the boys are at school, and Claude’s alone in the house, stupid, so stupid for wanting rid of the bond, so fucking stupid. His heart is racing still and his breaths are coming shallow, but he still makes it downstairs and grabs a set of car keys off the hooks by the door. He doesn’t know if he has a license. He must have a license. He doesn’t know where it is, and doesn’t bother looking for it.

He has to go find Danny. He can hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears, but he can’t hear Danny at all.

He doesn’t know how he gets there. Claude doesn’t know how he finds the rink or how he gets there safely, but he remembers climbing into the car and placing his forehead on the steering wheel, breathing steadily in and out in an attempt to calm himself, and later, he remembers climbing out of the car and the head rush he got as he stood, and how long it took him to make sure the doors locked behind him.

Walking through the halls of Voorhees, he’s not even sure how he knows the turns, just that his legs take him there, to Danny.

There must be practice going on, because the hallway is dead silent, not a single person in sight. Claude’s still panicked, his heart still in his throat, so he just walks like he belongs there, like he must’ve done a million other times before he forgot, before he got Danny and lost Danny, all in one fell swoop.

Claude rounds a corner and suddenly, Danny’s there, walking toward him. He’s not dressed out to skate; instead, he’s wearing socks and Crocs, and shorts that hug close to his body. He looks scared; he looks angry; he looks nervous. To Claude, he looks beautiful.

His legs take him right to Danny— _left foot, right foot, left foot_ —but once he’s there, he doesn’t know what to say. Claude just looks at him.

“ _Claude_ ,” Danny says, and he sounds wrecked. “What the hell were you thinking, driving like that when you’re concussed, when you know what happened—”

He reaches a hand out to touch Claude, but then pulls back when he remembers he’s not allowed to. Claude wants to tell him he’s allowed to, now, but maybe now Claude’s the one who’s not allowed to touch Danny, now that the bond is gone.

Claude doesn’t care. For once, he doesn’t care, and steps close enough to Danny that he can let his head fall forward, rest just his forehead on Danny’s clothed shoulder. It’s not enough—there’s an entire universe of dead space between their standing bodies—but it’s what he’ll let himself take.

“It’s gone,” Claude says, his mouth dry with nerves. “I took those pills and now you’re _gone_.”

“No,” Danny says, so quietly that Claude’s heart breaks with it. “Claude, this is normal. It’s normal. You’re getting better.”

Claude doesn’t feel better. He feels empty, like everything’s been taken out from the cavity of his chest, leaving nothing but air behind. He still doesn’t know Danny, but now he wants to.

“Claude,” Danny says, and then he takes his hand, slides his palm down Claude’s forearm until his hand touches Claude’s hand, until two of his fingers are able to lace in between two of Claude’s, skin pressing into skin and—

There. There he is.

Claude feels Danny again, feels Danny’s thoughts melt back into his own, so gently, differently than before. Now, they feel like they belong. Now, Danny’s thoughts are woven into Claude’s and not competing with them. Now, Danny’s thoughts _are_ Claude’s thoughts, or as good as, except for how they’re not Claude’s thoughts at all.

_I love you_ , Danny’s thinking, so clear and wordless, just a feeling that Claude can decipher without even trying. _I love you, and I want you to be better. I want you to be happy. I love you. We love you._

Claude’s breath hitches when Danny thinks that, and something in that one little intake of breath makes Danny feel a jolt of joy that Claude feels too, deep in the cavern of his chest.

“Where did you go?” Claude asks. With his forehead resting on Danny’s shoulder, his entire body moves with each breath Danny takes.

“Nowhere,” Danny says. “I’ve always been here.”

“Are you sure it’s not broken?” Claude asks. He had wanted it to be, before, but this is nice. This is comforting. Claude gets why people would want this.

“It’s not broken,” Danny says patiently, like even if it were, Claude would be fine. Claude wouldn’t be fine, he doesn’t think; he doesn’t know how anyone could go from being so full of thought to being just completely empty for the rest of their lives, only half of a whole, incomplete. “Touching is supposed to make everything clearer. Look,” Danny says, but he doesn’t mean it literally, and Claude doesn’t move. “If I let go, I’m still right here; you just have to go looking for me. I shouldn’t be shouting over everything you’re thinking.”

“Don’t let go,” Claude warns him, not quite trusting it, and laces his two fingers tighter into Danny’s.

“I won’t,” Danny says, and he feels so much love that Claude’s brimming with it.

 

They stand there for so long that Claude almost falls asleep, his head on Danny’s shoulder and Danny holding him up. A stick being tossed into a pile one room over is what eventually shakes him out of it, and he realizes that it’s only a matter of time before everyone’s off the ice and back in the locker room.

“Okay?” Danny asks, and Claude knows what he means by it. Claude nods once, stiffens and holds his breath, and Danny lets his hand fall away from Claude’s. The emptiness comes back in one sweeping wave, and Claude grabs for Danny’s hand before it’s even done moving away, Danny back in his head, _It’s okay. Claude, I promise. We’re fine_.

“I don’t like when I can’t hear you,” Claude explains, and it’s strange, _so_ strange, because just yesterday he would have given anything for it.

“Just try it,” Danny says. He thinks, _You’re in here; I’m in there,_ and Claude believes him.

He lets go of Danny’s fingers, and just like before, the crushing emptiness comes sweeping in, only this time, Claude lets it. He hates it, hates it, hates it, wants Danny there to fill up the silence, and goes looking for him, looking for a way to pull Danny back in where he belongs.

Claude traces the boundaries of his brain, pictures himself running a hand over a smooth white wall, an endless circle until— there’s a bit of Danny, there, hidden away, the quietest, faintest thread of _I love you_ tying them together, and Claude tugs on it. He pictures himself pulling and pulling at this little tendril of Danny, and the more he does, the more he can feel Danny, the more he can understand. _I love you_ and _You’re doing so well_ , and _There you are._ The little thread of Danny lies like a pile of rope at his feet, loops and loops of it still and forever leading back to Danny. It’s not like before; Claude has to go looking, but when he does, when he finds Danny, he’s able to pull as much or as little of Danny in as he wants.

_Danny’s hungry. Danny’s happy and warm. Danny needs to sign a permission slip for Cam and pay hockey dues for Caelan. Danny’s shaking Claude’s hand when Claude’s just eighteen years old, and Claude’s own eyes widen, so impossibly wide, and he smiles. Danny’s looking at Claude across the pillows for the first time, and Danny says, You’re too much, but means, What if I’m not enough, and Claude says, Danny, you’re everything. Danny’s laughing on the ice and Claude sees himself, young and flushed as red as his hair as the two of them collide. Danny’s in the living room, watching as the boys wake Claude up from a nap, Caelan blowing on a kazoo as Carson yells, Welcome home, G! Danny’s on the bench and Claude goes down and Claude doesn’t get up and Claude says, I don't even know him, and Danny would feel a devastating loss if Danny could feel anything at all, but instead—_

“You’d go crazy if you got everything, every minute of every day,” Danny explains, reeling his thoughts in, and Claude knows that. Claude was halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” Claude says, and he doesn’t know why he says it, but he just saw and felt everything Danny was thinking and feeling, and a part of Claude feels like Danny deserves to hear it. “For not remembering you.”

_It’s not your fault_ , Danny thinks, but it doesn’t matter who’s at fault when the circles under his eyes are as dark as they are. “Let me grab my coat and have the trainer take a look at you, and then we can get out of here.”

“Okay,” Claude says, but he still follows as closely behind Danny as he feels he can get away with when Danny walks out of the hall and into the locker room. There’s something like a feeling in the back of his throat that if he lets Danny get too far away, Claude’ll lose him again, and Claude can’t do that.

The stalls inside are exactly like what Claude’s used to dressing in, only nicer, and there’s sock tape on one of the benches, a couple sticks half-taped and falling out onto the floor. It’s huge to Claude, just to be in this room, because this is a professional locker room, and against all odds, he belongs here. Claude, when he remembers, belongs here.

“Hey, Danny B,” Claude hears someone say as soon as they’re past the threshold, but he’s distracted.

His jersey is hanging up in one of the stalls, the captain’s C on full display. Philadelphia Flyers Captain Claude Giroux. And that—it’s not any less of shock this time around; he’s not used to seeing that, the captain’s C.

“You still aren’t,” Danny tells him, and that shakes Claude out of staring and staring at the jersey.

“Oh, shit,” someone says, and when Claude finally turns to look, it’s a redhead with an unkempt beard, dressed out in full hockey gear. “G? I thought you were on house arrest.”

“Um,” Claude says, “I’m not—”

_Jake_ , Danny thinks, brushing the back of his hand against Claude’s. _Jake, good friend, little shit, beer, bad chirps, ten years in Shawshank, all for sensitive guys that was a joke, how’s my hair, be ready for my fat ass, best arm wrestler I’ve ever_ —

Claude clears his throat, and tries to blink away the onslaught of memories and images coming his way. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Oh,” Jake says, and he sounds disappointed. “So you still don’t—?”

“No,” Claude says quickly, just wanting to stop this line of conversation before it starts. He doesn’t remember; he _knows_ that. He doesn’t remember, and everyone likes him better when he does, and they all want the other Claude back, the one who remembers and plays hockey and has sons. He doesn’t want to hear it, and so although he has no clue what to say next, he opens his mouth like he does.

“He’s getting there,” Danny says instead, again so sure about it. Always so fucking sure about it; it drives Claude mad.

“Yeah, of course,” Jake says. “These things take time,” and Claude wants to tell him to shut the hell up, to stop being so serious. Claude wants to call him _Fifteen Percent_ , but he doesn’t even know why.

A slow smile spreads across Danny’s face at that thought, and for a second, Claude forgets everything else.

“Then again,” Jake continues, “with you gone, there’s finally room for me to be captain.”

“You can have it,” Claude says, a knee-jerk reaction, and it’s weird because he both means it and doesn’t mean it at all. He’s—he’s just a kid, all he wants is to just _play_ in the NHL, to make it, and now they’re telling him he’s captaining a team, taking all the weight and responsibility of the entire franchise and an entire city, and putting it right on his own shoulders. Claude doesn’t even know if he’s any good; he went in the first round, but plenty of players went in the first round and never amounted to anything in the big show. Patrik Stefan couldn’t even score on an empty net from half a meter away, and he went first overall.

Then again, being captain… At one point, that was the dream, just as much as Danny was.

“Nah, I’m just trying it out,” Jake says easily. “Schenner thinks he can chirp whoever he wants, but don’t worry; I’ll have him trained out of that by the time you get back.”

“Okay,” Claude says, more a question than anything, and his eyes dart back over to the jersey, to _his_ jersey, useless and limp on a hanger.

“Hey,” Jake says like he gets it, “don’t worry about that. That’s not something for you to worry about. Just get better, hey?”

And if that’s his teammate willing to say that, his friend and non-soulmate telling him hockey should take the back burner—Claude doesn’t know what could ever matter more than hockey, except for maybe Danny, but maybe he’s got it wrong. Maybe hockey isn’t the point of this; maybe hockey isn’t the point of anything.

“Alright,” Claude says, and Danny loves.

 

The two of them meet with Jim and Sal for a short while afterwards, and make plans for Claude to see Dorsh later in the week. Claude gets chewed out for driving, but then it seems like they realize they’re scolding a Claude who doesn’t know them, and so they let it drop for the time being. Jim clears Danny fully, so he’s the one who drives the two of them back home, and this time, pulling up to the Briere house is familiar. There are still sticks in the driveway that the car has to maneuver, a goal that has been knocked off its posts and two lawn chairs, and although it doesn’t feel like home, Claude knows this place now. This is Danny’s house.

There’s a placard just off to the right of the front door that says, _The Briouxs_ , and Claude misses a step when he sees it, he likes it so much.

“You okay?” Danny asks, and with his hand around Claude’s bicep, even through the cloth of Claude’s sweatshirt, he’s projecting so loudly, _worried, like last time, head alright, thought that was done, fall backwards and crack his head open, when will this_ —

And if Claude can hear Danny, there’s no way Danny can’t hear Claude, and so Claude yanks his arm back before Danny hears too much about how _The Briouxs_ sits high and light in his chest. Just the thought of that makes his face flush.

“I’m fine,” Claude says, but of course he’s not fine; Danny should know that already.

Claude walks in past Danny once the door is open, and heads right for the kitchen. He’s trying so hard not to think about anything that’s private, but after what happened on the front steps, Claude realizes nothing’s private, not for him, not anymore.

“So, what?” Claude asks, suddenly angry despite being so content back at Voorhees. He can't tell if it's coming out of nowhere, or if it's something he's been feeling for a long time now. “I bond to you and suddenly I don’t get to keep anything to myself anymore?”

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead like he’s surprised by the outburst, and Claude wants to call him on it. “You can keep whatever you want to yourself,” he says, but he proves Claude’s point by thinking, _Where’s this coming from, everything was just fine, I love you_.

“Where’s this coming from?” Claude parrots back viciously. “Everything was just fine. I—”

Claude cuts himself off, unwilling to say it.

“I love you,” Danny finishes, slow and calm, meaning behind every word. Claude can’t even look at him, afraid to see everything Danny’s feeling written all over his face, and so instead he turns his back, opens a cabinet and takes out a glass for water.

“You don’t know me,” Claude points out, gesturing with the glass. “You know the other Claude, you know the bond, but you don’t know _me_.”

“Of course I know you.”

“You only _think_ you do,” Claude points out. “But the bond—”

“I know all about you because you _told_ me,” Danny interrupts. He’s not raising his voice like Claude is, and that makes Claude feel childish, feel every bit like his eighteen-year-old self. “We talked, Claude, every step of the way; it’s not like we bonded, and suddenly I was magically in love with you.”

Claude must flinch hard at that, because Danny’s face twists like he only just realized what he said. But it’s true; Danny should say it if it’s true. Claude’s been in love with Danny since Danny was just an image on Claude’s tv screen, but for Danny? Claude’s not the best Danny could have done for himself, and they both know that.

“I didn’t mean that the way it—you don’t get—”

“ _You_ don’t get it,” Claude says. “You want the bond to be perfect so badly that you don’t even realize it’s not; it’s broken.”

“It’s not _broken_ ,” Danny says. “I just showed you earlier, it’s not broken. I wish you would stop saying that.”

“But it’s _true_. Maybe things were perfect between you and the other me, but I’m not him. I get too much, but you get nothing. You don’t even know what I’m feeling half the time.”

Danny blinks at him in surprise, or maybe in confusion, because then he says, “I know what you’re feeling _all_ the time; I feel it, too.”

“That’s the problem!” Claude says, but even he recognizes how he’s contradicting his earlier point. He wants privacy, wants his thoughts to only belong to himself, but at the same time, he wants the bond he has to work properly, wants Danny to know what he needs and to be able to give it to him. He wants both things, wants everything and nothing at all.

“Claude,” Danny says, sounding helpless again. “Bonds are—they’re not a cure-all, and they don’t show me everything. They don’t make me love you, or even like you. It’s just a link. I can’t just walk into your brain. I can pull in whatever parts you’ll let me, but that’s bringing you to me. I understand you better, but I can’t just—your head isn’t someplace I can _go_.”

“So I can shut you out?” Claude asks, and since he doesn’t even know if that’s something he wants, and doesn’t want to see Danny’s face as he asks it, he turns back around to start filling his glass from the tap. “So you don’t get anything?”

“If you wanted,” Danny says. But Danny doesn’t want. Danny’s thinking, _Don’t do this to me, be fine, come back_ , and Claude wants to ask why the hell he’d let Claude hear any of that, if he had the choice.

“Have I been doing that already?” Claude asks. Danny’s always asking how he’s feeling and if he’s hungry, if Claude wants to do this or if he wants to do that. If the bond weren’t broken, Danny would just _know_. That’s the whole _point_. “Shutting you out?”

Danny looks at him for a long second and doesn’t say anything. At the moment, Claude doesn’t know what Danny’s thinking, and he doesn’t like that; it’s a feeling that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as fast: the feeling of being on uneven ground, of suddenly not being as surefooted as he knows he should be.

“Claude,” Danny says slowly. “Do you want me to act like I just know everything about you already?”

“No,” Claude says, sure. He wants a choice, or at least the illusion of a choice. He wants to want things, but still be able to tell Danny that he doesn’t. To have a complete stranger know everything—what he wants and how he’s feeling and if he’s hungry or tired or horny—Claude would hate that.

And of course, his soulmate would know that already.

Of course.

Of _course_ Danny’s been asking him all those questions because Danny knew that’s what he wanted. It knocks the wind out of him, to realize the one thing he’s been holding on to—the belief that the bond was broken, or that it was a mistake—was so obviously false.

Claude traces the walls of his mind again, because he can and because he needs to know. He pictures himself placing his palm out flat, following the curve of the wall farther and farther around until he finds the little thread of Danny, knotted at the end so that he can’t slip out, and won’t slip away. Claude yanks on that thread as hard as he can, and in the kitchen, Danny stumbles.

_Danny’s exhausted. Danny’s stretched thin but still so in love. Danny needs to pack for the road trip, and needs to take the boys to their mother’s. Danny’s looking at Claude, asleep on the beanbag chair, and he wants to brush Claude’s hair out of his face but settles for touching Claude lightly on the ankle. Danny’s laughing at Claude, watching how he comes up sputtering for air after Caelan pushes him in the pool. Danny’s in their room and the lights are off, Zora wedged between their nearly naked bodies, and Danny’s face is just inches away from Claude’s as Claude laughs and says, Hey, she’s your dog. Danny looks at Claude, pale and swaying on his feet, but still asks, Are you okay? Danny’s wheeling his suitcase into their empty house when Claude stops short in the foyer and says, It doesn’t feel like home when they’re not. Danny’s standing in the kitchen in socks and Crocs, tired and thirsty, watching as Claude angrily and unknowingly shoves a glass under the tap—_

"How did this happen?" Claude demands. He places the glass of water down on the countertop rather than hand it over. It’s ridiculous to be mad at Danny for giving Claude what he wants, but somehow, Claude still is, is still struggling against something he can’t control.

"How does it always happen?" Danny says, a small smile on his face. "We shook hands."

 

Claude doesn’t know how much longer he just stands there in the kitchen, looking at Danny and feeling in love, both imagining and remembering the press of Danny’s hand against his, calluses to calluses, but eventually Carson and Cameron come bounding through the front door and shake the two of them out of their thoughts. The boys don’t realize what they’ve just walked into, and Claude wishes he could be that ignorant, too.

“Caelan’s crazy,” Cam announces, slinging his backpack onto the kitchen table, and Danny immediately _tsk_ s at that, everything he’s feeling all tucked away inside, hidden from the boys under the thickest blanket of love.

“Not on the table,” Danny says. “Your room or the closet.”

Cam shoots an annoyed look at Claude, and without even thinking, Claude finds himself shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes in return. The smile that drags out of Cam is unexpected. His smile is wide and unbridled and gap-toothed, and it strangely makes Claude want to know him.

“I know,” Cam sighs, grabbing his bag by the strap and then dragging it along the floor to the closet. “But Claude doesn’t even remember that rule, and even he thinks it’s dumb.”

“I didn’t, um,” Claude says, and then he looks at Danny, and looks away. He wants to look at Danny again, but he’s still too angry. “I didn’t say anything.”

Claude feels Danny think, _Always four-on-one_ , and then Danny says, “They know you too well for you to need to.” He doesn’t feel bad or awkward or upset at having to explain Claude to himself, and Claude wonders at what point Danny’ll just stop caring at all. “Where is he, anyway? Caelan.”

“He’s climbing out the window,” Carson says. He had grabbed apple slices out of the fridge, and is dipping them into a jar of peanut butter.

“What window?” Danny asks in disbelief. “At _school_?”

“No, he didn’t stay after today; it’s _Friday_.” Carson says, like all of this makes sense. “We saw him just outside.”

“What, are you—” Danny starts, but whatever he’s going to say next gets drowned out by the panic and worry, the anger and love, that climbs up Danny’s throat, and Claude’s. Danny rushes to the front door and steps outside; Claude can nearly picture Caelan, hunched over and walking down the sidewalk in a bright orange hoodie. “Caelan, get back here right now!”

Inside, Cam stares intently at Carson and asks, “Why’d you tell on him?”

Carson shrugs and says, “I dunno,” but the small smile on his face says otherwise. Just looking at him in that moment, Claude can tell he’s the troublemaker.

Outside, Danny’s shouting at Caelan, “What were thinking? It’s not a _joke_ , you could’ve gotten seriously _hurt—_ ”

“Can I have an apple slice?” Cam asks. Neither of them seem worried about Caelan, or what Danny’ll do to him, and Claude can only imagine it’s because they get in trouble more often than not. He remembers how it was when he was their age, always doing dumb stuff, just for the sake of doing it.

“Sure,” Carson says. “Want one, Claude?”

“Um,” Claude says. He looks back and forth between the boys and the doorway. Danny and Caelan are arguing loudly now, and while Claude doesn’t pay enough attention to see what’s being said, he knows with certainty that Danny’s going to march Caelan inside and sit all three of them down on the couch for a talk, and probably take away TV time. Claude doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does know that he doesn’t want to be here for it.

“Hello? Earth to Claude,” Carson says, and then more seriously, “Does your head hurt?”

“Oh,” Claude says, shaken out of his own thoughts, and out of Danny’s. “No, I’m fine. I’m actually gonna—I’m gonna go lay down.”

“Do you want a Gatorade, or something?” Cam asks. “Apple slices?”

“No, thanks,” Claude says, and then ducks out of there before Danny comes back.

 

Upstairs, Claude slips into the bedroom and closes the door behind him. There’s nothing to really do once he’s there, really, because television still makes the pressure build behind his eyes and because nothing in the room is really _his_ ; going through the closet made him feel like he was snooping, so although a part of him wants to open one of the bedside drawers and see what’s there, he doesn’t. He’s still not even sure which side of the bed is his, and despite all the problems he’s having with Danny—the bond and their family and the fact that Danny wants Claude in all the wrong ways, the ways Claude can’t be or give him—Danny deserves better than Claude going through his things. Claude’s been an asshole to him since the hit, and he’s not going to change the way he’s acting, not really, but he’ll do Danny this much.

So, instead, Claude picks up the iPhone that he knows is his, simply because the lock image is a picture of Danny. Just Danny, shirtless and wet and clearly lying out by the pool, squinting up into the sun. It’s a terrible picture, the coloring and the angle all wrong, but Claude still catches himself running a thumb over Danny’s face, as if he were right there, real and Claude’s to touch.

Claude jolts back the second he realizes what he’s doing, and curses himself.

“Idiot,” Claude says, and slides the lock bar across the bottom of the screen.

From upstairs, Claude hears Danny and Caelan arguing, _You could have seriously hurt yourself,_ and, _It’s not like it was my first time doing it_. Danny’s heart jumps in Claude’s chest, his adrenaline and worry becoming Claude’s.

Claude tries to ignore it. He focuses his attention back on the phone in his hands and sees the background of the phone once it’s unlocked, a picture of the five of them in suits in front of the fireplace. Caelan’s the only one smiling, hamming it up for the camera, but Claude’s got his head thrown back in laughter, Danny’s looking off to the side, Carson’s mid-speech, and Cam has his jacket shrugged halfway off, a look on his face like he’s in the middle of complaining. It’s a terrible outtake, but looking at it, Claude feels like he knows how it ends: all of them smiling, the boys in a planned pose with their suit jackets suavely tossed over one shoulder. He doesn’t know why he thinks that; wonders if it’s a memory or just something his mind fabricated because he wants it to be true.

It’s a feeling that sits heavy in his chest—or maybe that’s Danny. Either way, Claude doesn’t look at any more pictures, and instead opens up his texts. Danny’s at the top, the last person he texted, and then under that, a group chat titled _The Boys_. Claude opens it, thinking it’s the boys— _their_ boys—but it’s not; it’s just a bunch of guys from the team, names he recognizes and some he doesn’t. All the texts are times and restaurant addresses, or plannings for a backyard barbecue: _the brothers Schenn are in for 7:30_ , and _is vinny the 954 number?_ And his own, _Gbaby’s bringing the cornhole boards, boys_. An outpouring of chirping follows his use of the third person. Some of them make Claude smile, just the banter of it all.

Claude’s attention gets pulled away from the phone when he hears his name from downstairs.

_Well, it’s not like Claude cares!_

_What are you talking about? Of course Claude cares._

Caelan says something too quiet for Claude to hear. Danny feels helpless; it’s suddenly hard for Claude to breathe. Claude wants to run the flat of his palm down Danny’s spine, from neck to tailbone, thinks about thinking that at Danny, but doesn’t know if he does.

The phone buzzes in his hand. A new text comes in. It’s from Hartsy:

_Vora said you were at Voorhees today? Reports of your death, eh? Glad you’re doing better, bud._

And Claude just—his thumbs answer before his brain does. He doesn’t know Caelan, but of course he cares. He must care, when he remembers.

_I still don’t remember anything._

It’s a minute before Hartsy replies, the ellipsis sitting in the left corner of the screen for an eternity as Claude stares at it, like for some reason Hartsy is his lifeline out here, as if someone he’s never even met can give him some sense of normalcy.

_Lucky. I’m reminded of your karaoke skills every time I close my eyes._

Claude snorts out a laugh, and in the hallway, Caelan stomps to his room.

 

Claude can’t sleep.

He’s been in bed for hours, tossing and turning, but he feels oddly guilty, and he’s frustrated that after all this time, he still doesn’t know so many of the basic things about the person he’s become. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like not knowing if it’s his guilt over the boys, or if it’s Danny’s; if he’s been sleeping on his side of the bed, or if it only feels like it’s his because Danny’s in his head. Something in that frustration makes him get up and pad barefoot to the door, the guilt still eating him up inside. He can feel Danny wishing he were there, so Claude’s not surprised to see the light still on in Danny’s room; he knew Danny was still up. Claude starts heading over to pop his head in, but when he nears the doorway, he hears Cam talking.

“—just don’t like it,” he’s saying.

“That’s okay,” Danny says. “I don’t like it either; none of us do.”

“Yeah, but I just feel bad about it.”

“That’s okay,” Danny says again. “It’s okay to feel however you want to feel about it.”

A couple beats of silence go by, and all Claude can hear is his own breathing. He doesn’t even know why he’s eavesdropping; it’s not like it has anything to do with him, and it’s not like Danny could keep it a secret from him, if Claude decided he really wanted to know what was said.

“Are you and Claude getting a divorce?” Cam finally asks, his voice watery.

The question makes Claude so uncomfortable that he has the sudden urge to leave, but instead, he creeps an inch closer to the door, to where the light is just almost touching his skin. He peeks in, and Cam’s curled up on the free side of Danny’s bed. Danny brushes his hair back off of his forehead with one gentle palm.

“No,” Danny says. “No, of course not. Who told you that?”

“No one,” Cam says. “Just, Caelan said this reminded him of you and Mom. Because you two never talk, and Claude never wants to play with us anymore, and I know he forgot, and I know he’s hurt, but I miss him. I don’t want you to get a divorce.”

“Listen to me,” Danny says, very clearly. “Claude and I are not getting a divorce. He’s just very sick right now, and it’s hard for him. But I know you love him very much, so we just have to help him, and wait until he gets better and remembers.”

“And if he never remembers?”

And at that, Claude wants to pull away and walk back to his room, pretend he never heard any of this, because he’s terrified of the answer. What if he never remembers? Will Danny still want him? Will the Flyers? Will he even be as a good a player as he once was, now that he can’t remember ever playing in the NHL? He could move back with his parents for a while, get a job back in Hearst. Maybe he could go play in Europe. Germany, maybe. He could date someone else with a broken bond, and tell everyone that he’s fine. He could have kids of his own, kids that aren’t Danny’s, too. He could start a new family.

Claude could do a lot of things, if he never remembers; he doesn’t need to hear what Danny thinks. He turns and starts heading down the hall, but he doesn’t move quick enough.

“Then we make new memories,” Danny says, and Claude can’t stand it, the weight that settles heavy on his chest, on Danny’s. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, in the Briere house with all these people he doesn’t know.

Claude slips back into his room quietly and climbs into bed—the other side, the untouched side—and hopes that maybe just lying there will jog something in his memory, but it doesn’t. The sheets are cool and still tucked in on the side, the pillow not yet indented with the shape of Claude’s head, but it doesn’t feel any better or any worse than the other side. It just feels like a bed. Claude doesn’t know what he was expecting.

Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow he’ll call his mom again. He’ll tell her that he can’t stay here, that he’ll give it until next weekend, but then he needs to come home. He’ll say—he’ll say that Danny’s great, but it’s just not the same, that Claude’s overwhelmed and Danny’s _under_ whelmed, and that neither of them are getting what they want, and that it’s not fair for the boys. Because it’s not, but it’s also not fair for Claude, and it’s definitely not fair for Danny, who deserves the very best, and maybe Claude was that, once, when he remembered who he still was, but he’s not the very best now, and he’s not sure he ever will be again.

He resents Danny—or a large part of him does, anyway—for being the one Claude’s doing this with. Since Claude came off the ice, Danny’s been perfect, and Claude doesn’t _want_ perfect, doesn’t want someone who treats him like he’s glass or who feels so much but never anger, never frustration. Claude feels those all the time, and he hates that Danny doesn’t, that Danny is just as perfect as Claude thought he was back when he was just a poster on Claude’s wall.

And yet, embarrassingly, Claude wishes he had gotten to kiss Danny, or hold his hand. Danny’s soul is bonded to a different Claude, but this Claude is already at least partway in love with him.

Claude is just on the edge of sleep when the door opens a crack, and the light from the hallway spills into the bedroom, shocking him back into wakefulness. Claude tries to ignore it, especially when no one says anything, and the door closes again; he can hear someone tip-toeing their way across his bedroom, stopping just at the side of his mattress, and so he opens his eyes.

Caelan's standing there, watching him with a crease between his eyebrows. For a split second, Claude wants to joke, _You here to climb out this window, too?_

Caelan whispers, "I know you heard Cam and Dad; I saw you in the hallway.”

Claude didn’t see Caelan in the hallway, so he just says, “Yeah.”

“Is this as weird for you as it is for us?"

"Probably weirder," Claude whispers back honestly.

Caelan nods to himself and then looks around the dark room, like maybe he wants to sit on the other side of Claude's large bed; he doesn't, instead settling for sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back up against the end table, and Claude feels some strange mixture of guilt and incredible relief over it.

"How old do you think you are, again?" Caelan asks, and Claude moves even closer to the edge of the mattress, just so he can see Caelan as they talk.

"Eighteen," Claude says.

"Yeah," Caelan agrees nonsensically. "That must really suck."

Claude doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, just sort of lies there, hugging the edge of his mattress, looking at Caelan look at the floor.

"What if you really _don't_ remember?" Caelan suddenly rushes out, his words echoing Cameron’s, two hands pressed flat into the carpet in front of his shins.

"Um," Claude says, because he doesn't like to think about the possibility. _We make new memories,_ he hears Danny say again, but Claude doesn’t want new memories. He doesn’t even know if he wants the old ones back, honestly. Mostly he just wants to feel like himself again, no matter how he gets there. "Doctors say I should get everything back in a few days."

"Yeah, but _what if_?" Caelan asks. “Making new memories doesn’t make up for losing the old ones.” He’s talking louder than he needs to, and probably louder than he means to, and Claude hates how, at fifteen, Caelan still seems so young, because _Claude's_ not the one who should be doing the reassuring; Claude wants someone to tell _him_ that he'll remember, of course he will, and not to worry about it. Claude's only eighteen—or twenty-five, depending—but Caelan looks at him like he's got all the answers.

"I don't know," Claude says, because he doesn't.

"Promise you won't cut us out of your life?"

Claude doesn't say, _You're not going to want to keep me around if I never remember you,_ but he doesn't agree to the promise, either, because he's not at all sure that it's one he can keep. The boys aren’t even his to make any decisions for; that’s all up to Danny. So instead, Claude says, "Let's just—can we just take it one day at a time?"

The silence that follows that is tense, and Claude is hyper aware of the fact that he must've said the wrong thing. But Claude can't _do_ this, can't pretend to be who they want, not when he doesn't know them, not when he doesn't even know himself. He feels bad for it, but he's just a kid, too, no matter how they see him.

Caelan just sits there, clenching and unclenching his fists, and Claude's about to apologize when Caelan says, "You don't have the right to be an asshole to me just because you don't remember me."

"Don’t curse," Claude says, and then, because that’s weird, he adds, "Sorry. It's not, uh. It's not you guys."

"We know that," Caelan snaps. "That's all you guys ever say. But you promised that you and Dad would never be anything like the divorce, and then you went and got hit, and now you’re sleeping in different rooms, and we don't get to help you or make sure you’re okay, and no one tells us anything, and even though you and Dad say everything’s going to be fine, it's _not_. Cam’s right; it’s like Mom all over again."

And Claude—Claude doesn’t know how to respond to that for a long time, because Caelan’s talking like Claude’s another parent to them, when Claude’s only eighteen. He knows that’s how it is—he’s not dumb; the hit doesn’t mean he suddenly can’t put two and two together—but it’s easier to get through the day if he doesn’t think about it. He’s not ready for that, for putting other people before himself at every possible turn. Still, though, his ribs feel tight when Caelan talks like that, like Claude’s _theirs_ , not just a guest in the Briere household, but another Briere. He tries to imagine what Danny sees in him that makes him think it’s a good idea to trust Claude with his boys; Claude only knows himself as quiet and awkward, his accent thick as he stumbles over English words, his temper quick on the ice. Even knowing that now he's a captain, a millionaire, even knowing that now he's a man and not a boy—even then, it's obvious the boys mean the world to Danny, and Danny lets Claude be their parent. Claude might not know Danny all that well, but he recognizes the weight of that.

"I'm sorry," Claude says finally, because he is, even if he doesn't understand. "I don’t know anything about the divorce or how it happened, if—if I did something, or—I'm sorry. I’m trying."

Caelan rolls his eyes and shakes his head a little, obviously frustrated with the whole situation, and Claude can't help but silently agree.

"I know," Caelan says. And then he explains, "You’re the best thing that ever happened to us, and you’re ruining it."

“I’m sorry,” Claude says again, even though he doesn’t think that’s Caelan’s point.

Caelan rolls his eyes again, differently. “You’re lucky we love you.”

Claude doesn’t say anything, because all the things he wants to say—things like, _I am lucky_ , or, _I love you, too_ —don’t exactly feel real to the Claude he is now. So instead, he watches as Caelan gets up and heads to the door. It’s only after Caelan is halfway gone that Claude figures out what he wants.

“Hey, Caelan,” Claude says, and Caelan turns around. He’s silhouetted by the light coming in from the hallway, and Claude can’t see his face.

“Yeah?”

“Want to do something tomorrow?” he asks. He doesn’t know what he means. “Like, cards or lunch or something?”

“Yeah,” Caelan says, and Claude can hear the smile in his voice.

 

Claude wakes up with a new outlook, however fleeting, that he’s going to do better. Things between him and Danny are tense—it’s hard, sometimes, and uncomfortable in others, like when Claude wants to kiss him or when he remembers that he already has—but that’s not on the kids. Claude thinks maybe he needs to be better for them, because Claude might feel only eighteen, but they’re just _kids_.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Danny’s pouring a shake in a to-go cup. He looks up when Claude walks in, and while his smile is small, everything he feels is so, so big.

“Hey, Clo,” Danny says. He shakes the blender. “Want some?”

Claude shakes his head. “No, thanks,” he says.

Danny nods and pours the rest in an airtight jar and puts it in the fridge for later. Claude watches him from the breakfast bar, his elbows on the counter, and he wonders how he’d usually say good morning, when the kids were still asleep. He wonders if he’d have plastered himself to Danny’s back, hooked his chin over Danny’s shoulder and let his hand creep up under Danny’s shirt, fingers splayed wide just under Danny’s belly button.

This Claude isn’t the one who shook Danny’s hand, but if he was—if he did—that’s what Claude would do.

The back of Danny’s neck is bright red, and Claude feels embarrassed and uncomfortable—both coming from himself, and neither from Danny.

“Alright, well,” Danny says, clearing his throat. He turns around and looks at Claude. “I’m off to practice. Are you okay by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself,” Claude answers unthinkingly. It’s a Saturday.

Danny smiles a little, and says, “Of course.”

Claude just nods, and he feels like maybe he’s missing something, but still lets Danny leave, doesn’t bother walking him to the door.

It’s a quiet morning, all things considered. The boys watch cartoons and the NHL network over cereal, and then all head outside with the dogs, and Claude remembers being that young—it wasn’t long ago—but it was never like that for him. He was always headed from one rink to another, reading hockey magazines in the car and rarely taking a day off from playing, even when his schedule called for it. He must’ve played outside like they’re doing now, but he can’t remember it. He didn’t have brothers like this, partners in crime since birth.

When they come in in the afternoon, hungry and loud, Caelan says, “Hey, G? Can we make grilled cheese?”

“Okay,” Claude says. “If we have the stuff.” He can handle grilled cheese.

And it must be a routine of theirs, or something they do regularly, because Carson goes to grab the griddle and Caelan opens the fridge, pulling out three different cheeses and a tomato and a thing of blueberry jam.

Cam sits down at the counter and tells Claude, “I just supervise.”

“He’s just lazy,” Caelan corrects.

“Yeah,” Cam admits, quiet but unashamed, and his fist distorts his smile when he rests his cheek on it.

“We do this all the time,” Caelan tells Claude, and when he puts a cutting board and a tomato on the counter, Claude starts slicing it on autopilot.

“Well, not all the time,” Carson says.

“Right, not all the time. But a lot of the time, when you’re home.”

“Dad doesn’t like it,” Cam adds. “He says it’s just making an old man fat.”

The three of them laugh, and Claude smiles to himself, a little, because Danny’s not old, and he’s not fat. He’s as close to perfect as it gets, for Claude, everything Claude wants to look at and touch, but he tries to tamp down on that thought. Danny’s not his, and probably won’t ever be unless Claude remembers everything, and Claude already made things awkward at breakfast by letting his mind wander. He won’t do that again.

When he’s done with the tomato, he looks over, and Caelan’s buttering some bread. Carson is cutting some brie with a butter knife, a stack of sliced cheddar in a deli bag sitting next to him, and Cam is still watching, still smiling.

Things are relaxed by the time Claude lays the bread out on the griddle, the atmosphere in the kitchen easy and open. The boys laugh a lot, bickering and teasing and telling Claude stories about their friend, Joshua, but none of it’s forced. Maybe it’s because they don’t seem to need Claude to talk a lot, just listen.

“Brie and blueberry jam on mine, please,” Cam says, as Claude spreads cheddar over some of the sandwiches. Then he explains, “I don’t really like cheddar.”

“What are you talking about?” Caelan says. “You eat cheddar all the time.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do,” Carson says. “Quesadillas.”

“That’s cheddar?” Cam asks, surprised. “Oh.” Then he thinks about it and tells Claude, “I don’t like cheddar, _unless_ it’s in quesadillas.”

“Yeah,” Claude says nonsensically, spooning blueberry jam out on one open face of Cam’s sandwich. “Sure.”

It’s not until they’re all eating, the three boys at the breakfast bar and Claude standing over the kitchen counter, that anyone says anything.

“I thought it’d taste different,” Carson says, and the other two hum in agreement.

“Still good, though,” Cam says, and Claude thinks of Danny.

 

Claude spends the afternoon alternating between playing cards with the boys and napping, in part just waiting for Danny to come home, and in part pretending he’s not. He’s back to reading when Zoey walks over to the back door and then sits in front of it, looking expectantly back over her shoulder at him. Zora joins her, and then barks once.

“Okay,” Claude says, more to the dogs than to himself. “Okay, okay.” He unfolds his legs gingerly and stands up slowly, still somewhat expecting a head rush, or for the worst of the concussion to come back. He’s fine, though, and so he pads silently across the tile floor to the back door. Claude can feel the cold seeping through the glass when he gets close enough.

He takes a second to figure out the lock, but once he does, the door slides easily, and the dogs race out the second the door is opened wide enough. The boys have piled hockey gear just outside, and one lone lacrosse stick. The patio furniture is all covered up from the inevitable winter snow that will be coming later in the week, and where Claude feels like there should be a backyard pond is a swimming pool.

Claude stands there watching the dogs, enjoying the feel of the cold air on his face. If he closes his eyes, it feels like the snow is already here, covering everything, the whole neighborhood quiet except for Carson’s squawk when Caelan shoves snow down the back of his jacket.

_Give it a half hour and then I’ll lure them in with dinner,_ he can hear Danny say.

_You know how to cook now?_ he says back, poking fun, and Danny rolls his eyes, unsuccessfully tries to bite back a smile.

_I make hot chocolate,_ Danny defends himself, before saying, _but you’re stuck with me either way._

Claude bumps his shoulder into Danny’s as the two of them stand there at the sliding glass door, looking out at their boys running around. He laces his fingers into the dead space between Danny’s own.

_Must’ve made some bad choices to end up here,_ Claude says, but he feels everything in stereo, the love and the lust and the contentment and the happiness, everything coming from himself and from Danny, filling up the bond and filling Claude’s chest with helium.

Zora bangs into Claude’s legs as she squeezes back inside, and Claude blinks.

Danny’s still at practice, and it’s only Zoey outside.

So that was—that was a memory. Or Claude’s imagination? It feels so much like a memory, and if Claude thinks back on it, he can still feel the calluses on Danny’s hands, still see Cameron’s red down jacket, Caelan’s orange knit hat. He’s not sure when it happened, but he remembers the sun sitting low in the sky, the abandoned snowman by the fenceline.

It must be a memory, Claude thinks, but it means nothing and tells him nothing, not about himself or about Danny or about what to do now, _here_ , in a time where he doesn’t remember, and so when Danny comes home and asks, “Feeling better?” Claude says nothing other than, “No headaches,” because it’s not like one lousy maybe-memory changes anything.

 

Danny stays home for most of the next day, but spends a good portion of it wrapped up in game day routine: shake for breakfast, pasta with chicken and jarred red sauce for lunch, stretching out on the living room floor and then heading upstairs to nap. By the time he comes back downstairs, Claude’s spread out on the couch, Zora wedged between his body and the cushions, Zoey sleeping and drooling on his thighs. The tv is on low playing Friends reruns, and the boys are playing some card game at Joshua’s. Claude’s staying home.

Danny takes up space on the floor again, dragging a foam roller with him, and stretches out again, the same routine, the same duration of time. His calves flatten and then thin out with each pass of the roller, and then his thighs, and Claude stares, and then stares at the stucco.

“I’m sorry I answered for you,” Danny says, out of nowhere.

“It’s okay,” Claude says, and he might even mean it.

“No, I shouldn’t’ve; if you want to come, then you should come.”

Claude thinks about sitting up in the box, an eternity from the ice.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being so short, doesn’t know why he feels so on edge. It’s not Danny, he knows that much, but he thinks about asking Danny about it, in case maybe Danny knows what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t. He wants to go with Danny, but not to sit in the box.

He pretends to be asleep when Danny leaves.

Claude doesn’t watch the game that night. He tries to, even turns on the tv and flips through the channels until he finds the pregame show, but it’s only a matter of time before Claude’s seeing his own face—his _grown_ face—large on the screen, and hearing the commentator say, “—how they do without him. He’s been the core of this team for so long, the best player and the reason—” and Claude can’t take it. He shuts it off.

Then, a second later, he thinks, _Stupid, so stupid,_ because it’s just a hockey game. And the Claude they’re talking about? That isn’t even him, so none of what they say matters. Claude tries not to let any of that matter, and focuses on Danny instead. Danny feels good, in Claude’s head. Still nervous and worried about Claude and the boys, but excited for the game, excited to play, taping his socks over and over, around and around, trying to tamp down the excitement. Claude focuses on that, because it’s familiar.

Claude gets it; Claude loves hockey, too. And if he never remembers—if this is who he is for the rest of his life—Claude’s not giving hockey up without a fight, which means he’s got to get used to this, to how he looks as a Flyer, as a captain, as an NHL player with amnesia. So he turns the tv back on.

“—talked to his bondmate, Danny Briere. The two have been bonded since 2006, the first hockey bondpair since Vincent Lecavalier and Martin St. Louis, and only the sixteenth since Glenn Hall and Jacques Plante became the first hockey players to bond in 1969—”

It’s pointless; he’s not ready. He can’t handle this shit, not now, not yet. Claude shuts the tv off again, tosses the remote down onto the couch and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Stupid,” he whispers to himself, slouching further down into the cushions. Hockey shouldn’t make him feel like this, and he blames the bond for it, blames the amnesia. He hates it, fucking hates it so fiercely in that moment, how one hit could take the one thing he loves more than anything else and turn it into this.

His mother used to always remind him that hockey isn’t the only thing that matters in life, and Claude gets that, theoretically. Or, at least, he thought he did, but now? This? Life without hockey, without the memories of playing or how he got to the NHL, or what it feels like to be a captain... Hockey _is_ his life, and suddenly, it’s gone. Like everything he’s done up until this moment was pointless.

_Twenty-one playoff points,_ Claude remembers Danny saying to him once. _Twenty-one, Claude. That doesn’t seem pointless to me._

_But we were so close,_ Claude says angrily, grabbing a pair of gloves out of his locker and tossing them into a bin in the center of the room. _So fucking close, and what did we get? Six games and nothing else. The Cup given away. That’s not a failed season to you?_

_What do you want me to say, Claude?_

_Nothing_ , Claude told him, meaning it. _I just want to go home_.

Back on the couch in Danny’s house, Claude’s eyes widen. Because that—that was definitely a memory, must’ve been one because Claude would never dream up _losing_ the Cup. So close, _so_ _close_ , and Claude can’t even remember it, but he can imagine it, being on the ice right after they lost, wanting to be anywhere but there, but refusing to leave because that would make it real. Claude’s not even in the NHL yet, not really, but there’s nothing he wants more than the Stanley Cup. He feels that loss as if it were fresh, and his grief outweighs any excitement of another memory trickling back in.

It makes sense, logically, that forgetting is the fucking worst, but no one told him that remembering would be just as bad, and Claude doesn’t know where to go from there. The Stanley Cup Finals are what he’s been dreaming about since he was as young as he can remember, and now he’s been there. Has he been there? Claude doesn’t know, tugs at his hair in frustration. The most important day of his life, and he doesn’t know. All he can do is wait for Danny, he guesses. Danny will know.

Claude sits and sulks for a long time after that, feeling sad and angry, and anxious for Danny to come back and tell him the truth. He doesn’t turn the game back on, but he does sit and stare at the dark screen for a long time trying to imagine himself there, on tv, on Stanley Cup Finals ice.

He’s still sitting there when Danny gets back, the kids long since having gone to bed, everything in the house quiet and still. Danny probably thinks Claude’s asleep, too, the way he enters the house so quietly, hardly turning on any lights. Maybe Danny’s not paying attention to the bond; maybe Claude’s just not projecting that he’s awake. Claude hears him toss his keys in the bowl by the door and hang his coat in the hall closet. When he rounds the corner and sees Claude on the couch, he jumps.

“Shit!” His hand goes to his racing heart, and he smiles, embarrassed. “Scared the heck out of me.”

“Hey,” Claude says. He doesn’t really know what else to say. Danny’s in a game day suit, tie sloppy and loose, the top button of his shirt undone.

“Hey,” Danny repeats, but where Claude sounded sullen and empty, Danny sounds fond, soft. “What’re you still doing up? You feeling okay?”

“Have we ever—” Claude clears his throat. There’s no way Danny doesn’t know what Claude’s been thinking about all night, but Danny hasn’t answered because Claude hasn’t asked yet, and for a second, Claude’s unsure if he even wants to know. “We got close, didn’t we? Have we ever won it?”

“We got close,” Danny echos, “but no, we haven’t won it.” His response is soft and blunt, and Claude had expected it to hurt more than it did. “But you will; you’re still so young, Claude.”

Claude hears that for what it is as much as for what it isn’t: _You’ll win, but I probably won’t._

“How can you say it like that?” Claude asks like an accusation. “How can you just say that when nobody knows what’s going to happen, and any season—any season, any team can turn it around. They do it all the time. Do you even want to win it?”

“Of course I want to,” Danny says with a small smile, tentative, like he’s worried he’s going to scare Claude away. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my career. But—”

_Their boys graduating high school, going to college, Caelan becoming a doctor and Carson playing in the AHL and Cam backpacking through Spain, and Claude. Claude on the bench next to Danny, twenty-five years old, and Claude holding their granddaughter on the couch, thirty-nine years old, and Claude pressed up against Danny in bed, sixty years old, and Claude at every age, at_ any _age, always next to Danny, Claude, Claude, Claude_ —

“Oh,” Claude says, his heart heavy and swollen with love, and Danny smiles. It should make him uncomfortable, Claude _knows_ it should because he’s only known Danny for a few days, but for some reason it doesn’t, and Claude wonders if the warmth blooming in his chest is Danny’s, or his own, or if maybe the point is that it’s the same thing.

“Yeah, _oh_.”

Danny smiles like he loves Claude—and he does, looking like that, he does truly believe that he loves Claude—small and soft and entirely too open, and Claude looks back at him until it’s too much, and he has to look away. There’s a small stack of books wedged between the wall and the entertainment center that he never noticed before, a half-chewed tennis ball forgotten in the corner, and when his eyes dart back to Danny, Danny’s just still looking at him, leaning against the entryway, his hands tucked loosely in his pockets. Most of his hair is damp and brushed back, but there’s one section of hair that has fallen in front of his face, and Claude wants to brush it back, feels Danny want Claude to want to brush it back.

It’s too much. It’s nice and Claude wants it, but this isn’t his to want.

“Come on,” Danny says, straightening. His eyes look sad, or maybe it just feels that way. “It’s late; let’s get to bed.”

And for a second—for a long second—Claude wants it to be the both of them in one bed, slotted together like spoons or puzzle pieces or hockey sticks lined neatly in a row, their two bodies together, their two minds one, mourning the loss of the Stanley, of Claude’s memories, of them.

Claude says, “Yeah, I lost track of time.”

 

He drives with Danny to the rink the next morning, for a checkup with Dr. Dorshimer. Danny seems to be more worried about it than Claude is, telling Claude not to worry, and that no matter what the doctors say, it’s only been a couple of days, and not to expect miracles.

“Just be honest with him about how you feel, okay?” Danny says, walking Claude down the hallway of Voorhees. “I know you don't like asking for help—”

“Hey, hey, Danny B!” someone says. “G-String, good to see you back!”

“Hey, Hal,” Danny responds with a half-hearted wave, but he doesn't slow down. “But seriously, if there's anyone that should know everything, it's Dorsh.”

“Not you?” Claude asks. It's meant as a joke, because of the bond and all that, but it doesn't come out like one.

“No,” Danny responds, seriously. “The only thing that matters is getting you better, Claude. Everything else… Well, nothing else matters.”

_I’m getting better,_ Claude wants to say. _I’m remembering, slowly,_ but he's not sure that he is, and doesn't want to risk it. Instead, when Danny knocks sharply twice on the doorjamb to the doctor’s office to announce their presence, Claude says, “I’ll see you after practice.”

“He’s in good hands,” Dr. Dorshimer says from behind his desk, and Claude looks over at him for what feels like the first time. He remembers seeing a doctor after the hit, remembers being told it was their head physician, who splits his time between the rink and the hospital, just doesn't really remember which doctor it was, or what he looked like. Must’ve been Dr. Dorshimer, though, because Dr. Dorshimer seems to know him.

Which—Claude’s the captain of the team, of course the doctor knows him.

“No doubt about that,” Danny says, sounding upbeat in a way that he doesn't feel. “See you later, Clo.”

And then he's gone. Dr. Dorshimer gets up and moves around his desk, motions for Claude to grab a seat at one of the free chairs while he himself perches on the edge of his desk.

“Hi… Dr. Dorshimer?” Claude asks, and then sort of awkwardly lets his hand hover halfway between the two, like he's not sure if they should shake hands or not.

“Oh god, please,” Dr. Dorshimer says, laughing. He takes Claude’s hand without comment. “Just call me Dorsh. It's a lot easier for all of us.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Claude says, but he’s not sure what he's apologizing for. A lot of things, probably. “I don't really… remember much. Of last time.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Dorsh assures him. “After a hit like that? Even without all the extra problems, I wouldn't expect you to.”

“Oh,” Claude says, and it feels like a relief even though he never realized that was a concern he had to begin with.

“Alright, Claude, let’s see how it's going,” Dorsh says, standing up and grabbing a clipboard. “Any physical soreness?”

“Not really,” Claude says. “A little, sometimes. Not much by way of bruises, though.”

“That's good, that's good,” Dorsh says, and then he launches into the standard concussion testing routine that Claude’s already used to, from years and years of hockey and roughhousing and not being as careful as he should.

Claude stands on the mat on one foot, touches his nose with one hand and then the other. He listens to a list of words, repeats them; repeats a string of numbers backwards. He gets the date right, his name right, his age right. Gets his soulmate right. Doesn't remember all these things, but knows most of them to be true.

“Well, you don't show signs of concussion anymore... How’s the brain feel?” Dorsh asks, and Claude shrugs. He’s about to say, _Fine_ , but remembers Danny asking him to be honest.

“Lightheaded, sometimes. Most of the headaches stopped the next day, though.”

“Alright, that's a good sign,” Dorsh says, and makes note of it on the clipboard.

“I’m sort of—” Claude starts, and then cuts himself off. Dorsh doesn't push him, and so maybe that's why Claude continues, “Sort of remembering.”

“Remembering?” Dorsh asks, his eyebrows high. “That's great.”

“Well,” Claude says. “I'm not _sure_ they're memories. They feel like memories, but it was just two of them, and I don't really know how to be sure.”

“Okay,” Dorsh says. “That's still great progress; only time will tell with that. In the meanwhile, keep an eye on things, so to speak, and don't get too disappointed if more memories don't come right away.”

Claude swallows down on his heart, leaping into his throat.

“But you said I'd remember,” Claude reminds him, slightly frantic. “Everyone keeps saying that I'll remember.”

“And I still think you will,” Dorsh tries to calm him. “Especially given the progress that you've just shown me, and only in a handful of days. But the human brain is a tricky thing, and it's unreasonable to expect everything all at once, right away. It's a progress; not a sprint but a marathon.”

“It's not the destination, but the journey?” Claude deadpans, and Dorsh laughs.

“Something like that,” he says.

They're interrupted then, when they're done with the tests but still talking, by someone knocking lightly on the door with one hand, the other cradled to his chest. He's still in full gear, minus the helmet, with skate guards over his blades.

“Hey, Dorsh. I can’t find Jim; you got a sec to look at this, or should I…?” He gestures vaguely.

“No, no, of course,” Dorsh says, and then most likely for Claude’s benefit, he adds, “Come on in, Sean.”

“Oh,” Sean says, his eyes flicking back and forth between Dorsh and Claude. “Okay.”

Sean walks awkwardly into the room and drops himself down into the open chair near Claude.

“Hey. Sean.” Claude says stiltedly, quirking a small smile.

“Hey, G,” Coots responds, and just before he holds his wrist out for Dorsh to gently flex, he gestures to himself and says, “Coots. Not Sean. Well, I mean, yes, Sean, technically, but… Anyway, Dorsh—puck hit it, but doesn't seem broken or anything.”

“Minimal swelling,” Dorsh agrees, and then turns his back to open a drawer.

There's a moment of silence that hangs between the three of them, and then suddenly, “I wanted to swing by,” Coots rushes out. “Or text, or something, to see if you were okay. But then I found out how you didn't—and I didn't—”

“Yeah, it's okay,” Claude assures him. “Probably the right call, honestly.”

“Oh,” Coots says, and then nods once, like he’s decided something. “Well, I'm glad you're doing better. Not the same without you out there.”

Claude smiles sarcastically, more a downturned twist of the lips than anything else, and says, “You’ll still be waiting a while; I can't even skate yet.”

“No, you're good,” Dorsh interrupts, turning around with a finger splint and an ace bandage in his hand. “No contact, low level cardio, maybe a bit on the bike. Do it all supervised, though, not just the skating.”

“Can I skate today?” Claude asks before he’s even processed it. “Now?”

“If you feel up to it.”

And Claude just—this is it. This is what he needs right now, the normalcy of it all. He’s missed the ice like an ache in his bones, can feel his excitement radiate outward, feel Danny’s happiness rushing right back toward him, _Yes_ , and _Claude_ , and _Practice almost over, the image of empty stands but a full rink, someone missing a shot and shouting Fuck! up to the rafters. The memory of Claude leaning on his stick as Danny glides around the rink in a green No Contact jersey, You look good back out on the ice, Danny, as Danny just shakes his head and a flush runs up the back of his neck. Claude smiling as the arena lights up around them, the sound deafening, hands touching his shoulders and helmet, and Danny racing closer, closer, colliding—_

In Dorsh’s office, Claude smiles; Coots smiles back, just as wide and three times as toothless.

 

Danny helps Claude lace up.

Claude doesn’t want him to, starts off doing everything himself, from taping his stick the way he remembers liking it to strapping on his pads, just to prove that he deserves to be heading out onto the ice, that he's well enough to. He’s fine for most of it, but by the time he’s bending over to lace his skates, he gets hit with a wave of lightheadedness. Black creeps in along the edges of his vision, pinpricks of color dotting everything in between, and he grips tightly onto the edge of the bench in an attempt to will it all away.

“Claude?” Danny says, but of course he already knows. He drags a folding chair over and sits down, carefully pulling Claude’s skated foot toward him. Claude pictures him doing this for Caelan, for Carson, for Cameron, and now for Claude himself, too, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” he settles on, and Danny nods.

“You stop if you need to stop,” he warns, and Claude would hate that, except for how he’s about to be back on the ice, and for how Danny’s at least giving him the benefit of the doubt in knowing where his own line is.

“I will,” Claude says. Promises.

They walk out to the ice together, down the tunnel and through the wide mouth to the rink, and there are trainers and doctors and Danny, but all Claude sees is the ice. He expects wobbly legs and uneven strides, but from his first step out, it’s like he never left. His cheeks are cold and his hair sways with his momentum; the ice looks almost still wet from the Zamboni, and Claude feels at home. Feels everything inside him shift minutely, to the point where everything finally fits, to where he thinks he finally feels in all the ways that he should.

There are a handful of pucks left out for him, and one by one, Claude takes them on his tape and runs them down to flick into the opposite goal: lefthand top shelf, a deke to the imaginary five hole, a soft slap from the blue. It’s nothing impressive, but it feels good, and by the time Claude looks up, shagging the pucks from the empty goal for another go-around, he’s got a bit of an audience: Coots and Vora on the bench, Hartsy just over the boards. Danny on the ice.

“Hey,” Claude says, but he’s only speaking to Danny.

“Hey, yourself,” Danny says, and he skates over. He looks so at ease, in a way Claude hasn’t yet seen at home, and Claude figures maybe it’s the same for him, too. Maybe they’re each just two different people, the on-ice and off-ice versions of themselves.

Danny reaches him and then keeps going, slow and leisurely, and Claude skates with. They’re shoulder to shoulder, lap after lap, and Claude would say something to break the silence except for how Danny’s working up to that, and has been since the moment he helped Claude lace up his skates. It’s not hard to know what’s coming, because even if he doesn’t know the words, he can see the memory: a stick on the ice, a helmet spinning on its top. Hartsy shaking off his gloves. Danny’s white knuckles grasping at his stick, the boards, the air.

“It happened right here,” Danny says, just as they pass the left corner of the attacking side. “Brewer—you were in the corner, because Jake dumped the puck out there, and Sustr followed you. You guys were scrambling for the pick, you know, it was caught between your skates. You came away with it, not far, and Brewer just…”

Danny stops skating, looks at the goal like he’s not seeing it at all. Claude doesn’t know what to say.

“You had your head down when he hit you, but it wasn’t a hard hit. I think that was the worst part: it wasn’t a hard hit, but you still crashed into the boards. And I lost you.”

_I’m right here,_ Claude wants to say, but that’s not the point. He’s right here, but the Claude that Danny’s talking about isn’t. When Danny says it like that, though, simple and to the point— _I lost you—this_ Claude aches so deeply to be _that_ Claude. Just to know what it feels like, just for a minute.

Claude thinks it might be nice, to love and be loved.

“Anyway,” Danny says, shaking himself out of the memory. “I don’t really recommend you Google it.”

“I’m sorry,” Claude says, and finds that he really means it. “Danny, I’m—” He can’t really find the words, motions vaguely in the air and hope Danny sees something familiar in the gesture.

“Hey. I’m not telling you so you feel bad,” Danny says, and then he hits Claude’s shins lightly with his stick, reaches out for a puck. He dekes it back and forth, smooth hands and even strokes; the curve of his lips as he smiles to one side. “You forget how to play hockey or what?”

Claude rolls his eyes and halfheartedly attempts to steal the puck back. He fails miserably, and on the sideline, someone whoops and hollers. Danny brushes past him, their shoulders colliding, and the hit is careful, purposeful, but not entirely gentle, and something in that—

Claude’s a hockey player, and Danny’s a hockey player, with or without the NHL, and that _means_ something, something about who and what they are, at the very core of things. Claude doesn’t want the kid mitts, doesn’t want to be handled with care, and maybe, as a hockey player, Danny instinctively gets that, because he’s the same way. Maybe Danny just gets Claude because they’re the same, even without the bond.

Put like that, Claude thinks, he doesn’t mind things so much, and with the choice of staying put or following the puck, Claude takes off down the ice.

 

The drive home after is quiet but not entirely comfortable. Claude’s in sweatpants, two shirts, and a hoodie, at first bracing himself from the cold, but the car heats up fast. It's starting to snow, just a little. Claude doesn’t really have anything to say, and the only noise in the car comes from the speakers, the volume loud enough to be heard, but too quiet for anything to be discernable. He wouldn’t be able to focus on it even if it were louder, because of Danny.

Danny’s thinking so loudly— _How did Dorsh go, how did Dorsh go, how did_ —that Claude eventually gives in and answers, even though Danny hasn’t said a word.

“It was fine. No concussion, no PCS,” he says.

“Good,” Danny says quickly. “That’s—good. And about…?”

Claude shrugs. “He thinks I’ll probably get them back, but he doesn’t know for sure. Or how long it’ll take.”

Danny nods three times to himself, eyes trained on the road and both hands on the wheel. He feels like a panic attack, only muted, like hearing sound from underwater. Claude almost doesn’t want Danny to say whatever comes next, because just the feeling of it is overwhelming for him

“You don’t have to,” Danny says with purpose. “For me to still care. I know you’re uncomfortable with that, because you don’t—because we don’t know each other, but I’ll want you for the rest of my life, even if you don’t want me. You’re still my Claude; I’ll still _care_.”

And that—

It rubs Claude’s insides raw, that Danny thinks maybe Claude doesn’t know how much he cares. That’s been readily apparent from the moment Claude saw him after the hit, and he can’t believe that Danny thinks that maybe he isn’t showing it enough. That Claude doesn’t realize Danny cares. Claude knows exactly how much Danny cares: so much, or maybe even too much, for a person like Claude.

“I know,” Claude says. “Danny, I know.”

“Oh,” Danny says, letting out a huff of embarrassed laughter, and not a part of him at all feels like he was disappointed that Claude didn’t say it back. They’re at a red light, and Danny turns his head to look at Claude, the smile still on his face as he says, “That’s good, I guess.”

Claude sees it like double exposure, one on top of the other: in this car, Danny driving, his hair still wet from the shower and dripping onto the collar of his black wool coat, his smile nervous, his face sincere, _I’ll still care_ , and in Berlin, in some other car, Danny’s ballcap pulled low over his eyes, the sun backlighting him from outside, his thoughts steady, his feelings strong, _Ich liebe dich_.

He sees it as if through a cell phone screen. No, he _does_ see it through a cell phone screen; he’s filming Danny and the car is moving, and Danny’s texting someone. Who does he even know in Germany already? Claude wants his attention, always wants his attention, knocks his knee into Danny’s. Teasing, _Did you work hard at practice? Did you win or lose_?

Danny laughs and looks over, rolling his eyes a little at Claude’s antics, because he knows what Claude’s doing. Of course he knows what Claude’s doing.

_I worked hard, but I don’t think it was very good_. He’s humoring Claude, humoring Eisbären Berlin for asking for the video. Trying to keep a straight enough face with everything that Claude’s thinking, about how _he_ wants to work hard, for Danny. How he wants to blow Danny up against the door in their hotel room, how he wants to rake his blunt fingernails down Danny’s bare thighs.

_But did you—did your team win? Did the old guys, or did the young guys—_

_The old guys won,_ Danny lies blatantly, and his face—his fucking _face_. Claude loves it, loves that face. Wants to kiss him, wants to tell Danny that he loves him.

_No, no,_ Claude says. _Danny, don’t be lying._

_Ich liebe dich_ , Danny says, a minute and a topic change later, and he says it like a joke, but it’s not. Not when he’s smiling like that, looking right at Claude, and not when Claude says it right back, _Ich liebe dich._

_Ich liebe dich._

The back of a hand touches Claude’s knee.

“Claude?” Danny says. He looks expectant. “You okay, there? We’re home.”

Claude blinks. They’re in the driveway, pulled up as far as the shinny goals will allow.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

Danny looks worried and feels worried, but all he says is, “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Claude says again, and fumbles with the seatbelt. Gets inside, and heads right upstairs. Lies to Danny, _I’m fine_. Tries to remember more. Tries to understand.

Claude knows he shouldn’t, is dimly aware that it’ll only make things worse, but it’s like he’s hungover from the memory, sick from how much he loves Danny, when he doesn’t even _know_ Danny. Doesn’t know a single thing that’s important.

He unlocks his phone again, and goes right for the pictures. There are a ton of the dogs, almost an equal amount of food, but the one thing that overpowers it all are the pictures of them, of their family.

Danny cooking a stir-fry. Cam showing off his missing teeth, one arm slung around a crouching Coots, who’s doing the same. Caelan and his date before a school dance. Claude and Carson eating off paper plates on Claude’s mother’s couch. Danny in front of a sign that reads, _Hearst, pop. 5,090_.

Claude scrolls to the top to see what else there is, and the very first thing is a video. Claude clicks it, and Cam swings by on a tire swing, throwing himself off into a lake as the dogs bark wildly at the shoreline. The camera pans over to where Danny, Caelan, and Carson are sitting on lawn chairs and towels in the grass, the three of them holding up paper plates, marker making them read _8.5, 8.5, 7_. Behind the camera, Claude hears his own laughter, then sees his own hand hold an _8_ in front of the lens. In the water, Cam sputters.

Claude closes out the video; it doesn’t mean anything to him, doesn’t spark any memories. He opens his text thread with Danny instead, scrolls up a little and then reads down from there.

Saturday, 2:18 p.m.

Opened the coffee bean grinder.

Can you believe it’s broken?

what?? ridiculous

use a mortar and pestle

I love you, but not that much.

Do you have the receipt?

i’ll look for it, but otherwise it was like  
15-20 bux, so don’t sweat it

Saturday, 4:51 p.m.

be home in 10

Front door’s unlocked.

Sunday, 10:13 a.m.

don’t forget swiss cheese!

the nice stuff

Monday, 12:06 p.m.

Where’d you put Cam’s new epipen?

Nevermind.

one in his backpack, one in the kitchen.

Ok.

Everything’s okay. Just realized how that  
sounds.

haha yeah i figured

Monday, 4:43 p.m.

On my way.

cool.

Tuesday, 11:07 a.m.

Sylvie’s this weekend. Clear your  
schedule, I’ve got plans for you after  
we drop them off.

happy birthday to me, eh?

And that’s it. Those are the most recent texts. Claude’s stomach sinks, and he tries not to feel like he’s snooping in on someone else’s life, because that’s _his_ life, his and Danny’s, and the texts are nothing special, but Claude didn’t know any of that, didn’t know what life looked like for them. He knows now, dimly, in some ways, but Danny still doesn’t know that Claude remembers: the two of them standing at the sliding glass door; the two of them losing the Cup.

The two of them, _Ich liebe dich_.

 

The next morning, Claude pours cereal for the boys while Danny makes their lunches and they all sit together in the kitchen while Claude tries to figure out his role in the routine. He doesn’t say much, just sort of sits back and observes, and everyone must expect that from him now, because no one asks if he’s alright.

Once the boys are on the bus to school, Claude follows Danny into the living room and sits down on the opposite end of the same couch with him. The news is on and Danny’s head is pillowed on the opposite arm rest; Claude has nothing to do with his hands.

“I looked, um,” Claude starts, and then he clears his throat. He doesn’t know how to start this conversation, but overwhelmingly feels like it needs to be had. He drums his fingers on his knees, then shoves his hands underneath his thighs to keep them still. “I looked at some of our pictures. On my phone.”

Danny stills, just his hands moving up and down on his belly with each breath, and then says, “Yeah? Anything good?” Claude shrugs.

“Just the normal kind of stuff, I guess.”

Danny laughs a little, so much like he did back in Germany, soft and teasing, and he says, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, I mean, I just didn’t know if things would be different. Because we’re, you know. Bonded.”

Danny’s heart swells in Claude chest so quickly and unrelentingly that Claude almost wishes he didn’t say it.

“Hate to break it to you,” Danny says, feeling brave now that Claude seems more open to the idea of a bond, “but it’s been seven years; we’re like an old married couple now.”

A pause, and then, "Didn’t it scare you at first?" Claude asks. "You didn't even know me."

"Of course it scared me," Danny says. He falls right in step with what Claude’s asking, with what he’s talking about and what he really means. Danny takes it all in stride. "I felt everything that you're feeling now. It’s funny, actually: you were the calm one, then; I was a mess."

“And, what? You just got over it?" Claude asks. "That makes no sense; nothing changed."

"Ah," Danny says to himself, like suddenly he's figured Claude out. "That's where you're wrong; _everything_ changed." And then, when Claude says nothing, he explains, "I went from not having you to having you. I never thought I'd find you, and then there you were. I couldn’t resist that."

“Couldn’t resist that,” Claude repeats, trying to understand. And then, as if he owes it to Danny, he says, “I think I remember Germany—part of Germany.” He slouches further down against the couch so that he’s looking up at the ceiling rather than over at Danny. “I kept telling you that I loved you in German because that was all I knew how to say, and all I needed to be able to say.” He pauses for a second, unsure how to read the nervousness and hope and fear that Danny’s sending his way. “Did that actually happen?”

“Yes,” Danny says, clearing his throat. His heart is racing. “We were just goofing around, enjoying Berlin. There’s a video of it on YouTube, if you wanted to see it.”

“No,” Claude answers quickly. “No, I don’t—I don’t want to remember things that way.” But truthfully, he’s just not sure he can handle seeing it. Seeing himself. It feels like a cheat.

“I know,” Danny says. “Always have to do things on your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Claude,” Danny says like it’s obvious. “You’ve always been stubborn, and you always will be. It’s okay; it’s a good thing.”

“Not everyone thinks so,” Claude points out.

“Well, I think so.”

Claude nods at that. The first girl he ever kissed called him stubborn when they broke up, eight weeks later, and she said it like it was one of the worst things about him. _So stubborn_ , she had said, but it sounded nothing at all like the way Danny said it just now. But there must be a reason that Claude’s with Danny and not that girl, and maybe this is just one example.

“I’m done pretending that I don’t love you,” Claude tells him. “It’s tiring, and everyone knows the truth, anyway: I don’t know you, but I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Danny says, and it’s the first time Claude has heard it from Danny’s mouth, but far from the first he’s felt it.

“Can I kiss you?” Claude asks.

“No,” Danny says, like the very idea of it surprises him.

“Oh,” Claude says, flushing down to his toes. In hindsight, it makes sense: Claude has unruly red hair, skinny legs, and a black hole where a tooth should be; Danny’s a top hockey player, an amazing father, and a handsome man. Claude just hoped, for a second, that’s all. He misunderstood. “Oh. I just thought that—” He shakes his head. “But yeah, no, of course not—”

“Claude,” Danny says, sitting up and grabbing Claude around the calf as Claude stands up to leave the room. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I love you, and you are—you are the sexiest thing I have ever seen, but you think you’re _eighteen_. You’re so, so dependent on me right now.”

“So?” Claude says. He’s embarrassed now, defensive, and his smile is forced. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it when I was _actually_ eighteen.”

Danny blinks at him for a moment like he doesn’t know what to say, and something in Claude feels sickly victorious about that, and he hopes Danny can feel that, how upset he is, how embarrassed he is, how hurt and betrayed and small he feels.

“Claude,” Danny says. “We didn’t kiss for almost a year after we bonded.” Claude doesn’t voice his shock and disbelief, but Danny must feel it anyway, because he flushes and looks a little embarrassed himself. “Well, I mean—I was already in the middle of the divorce; you were just a kid, and I didn’t even have custody of my _own_ kids, and I wasn’t really handling… anything all that well. So you just… lived with us. Got to know the boys. Got to know _me_. Decide if I was something you actually wanted.”

“You mean I didn’t…?”

“Didn’t what?” Danny asks.

Claude flushes, again in embarrassment, and says, “Didn’t cause the divorce?”

_I’m so sorry,_ Danny thinks. _Should have told you, ugly for a long time. The sound of a dish breaking against the floor, You’re never around, Daniel, and they make everything about me about you. Cam asleep in the backseat of the car while Caelan cries, I just want to stay with you, Dad. Claude standing there in the locker room, arm outstretched and his hand in Danny’s, looking impossibly young, and some part of Danny wants him so badly, but he has other things to worry about, other things more important, the blasting AC in the lawyer’s office as the lawyer says, She wants half of everything, and child support, and an allowance, and Danny thinking, okay, fine, okay, until the lawyer says, and full custody, and Danny’s fists are balling up, and he’s shaking, and he says, How dare she—how dare she—_

“No,” Danny says instead, but he paused for long enough to let Claude sift through everything Danny remembered. That much, Claude knows he did on purpose.

“I’ve always liked you,” Claude tells him without meaning to. It comes out of nowhere, a surprise to even Claude himself. “Always wanted you. Even before I met you.”

Danny smiles at him, small and real and not forced at all, not like Claude’s was.

“I’ve always liked you, too,” Danny says quietly. “That’s why I’m being so careful.”

Claude looks away and doesn’t say anything.

 

Claude spends a good portion of the morning laid out on the couch in the sitting room, the same one he called his mom from a few days earlier, the one that he hated because it didn't feel lived in. Now, that's what Claude wants, because if no one really lives in this room, Claude can hide in it alone, sort through his shame and embarrassment in a way that at least lets him pretend that Danny doesn't know how upset he is. Rejection always hurts, no matter what form it takes; hurts even if it's done for all the right reasons, the primary of them being love.

It's funny, Claude realizes, how everything he thinks and everything he feels, everything he _wants_ , can change so radically in the span of only a few short days.

Danny doesn't leave him by himself for too long, and commandeers the big arm chair across from Claude, at first just dropping his book in it, and then coming back with turkey sandwiches for the both of them.

“I brought lunch,” Danny says while holding the plates, one shoulder lifting up in a shrug. He adds, “If you're hungry,” but it sounds a lot like, _I’m sorry._

“Thanks,” Claude says, and he wonders what Danny hears.

They eat in relative silence, although Claude’s not sure if it's a comfortable one or not; maybe that's a sign that it isn't. He’s not sure they've ever spent time together without one or the other so desperately wanting things to be different, for Claude to remember or for him to not be there at all. It's not a nice realization, Claude doesn't think.

He looks at Danny, and Danny looks fine. His fingers are playing with the corner of his book as he reads, his ankles crossed on the coffee table. His socks are similar, both like in color, but mismatched: accidentally, probably. A little tired, maybe, the bruises under his eyes a little darker than he remembers seeing in photos on his phone, but that could be anything. That could just be how Danny looks in person, when he's not on vacation with his family.

His brows are furrowed in concentration, and Claude wants to run the pad of one thumb up and over the crease where they meet. Danny looks up at him, smiles uneasily. Looks away.

It's almost worse now than it was before: wanting Danny but not having him, rather than the other way around.

Claude can't stand any of it, and, in a fit of childishness, says _no_ when Danny leaves for practice and asks if Claude wants to come with, to skate or bike or just get out of the house.

“You sure?” Danny asks; he knows Claude isn't.

“Yep,” Claude says, and makes a face like, _You can go now._ The Flyers aren't requesting he work out yet, haven't said anything about rehabbing just yet, and after the shitshow that was earlier that morning, Claude’ll do just about anything to avoid being stuck in a car, just him and Danny. The house is barely big enough for the two of them, as it is.

Danny nods, a little put out, and the rush of smugness that Claude feels only ends up making him feel younger than the eighteen he remembers being.

Claude doesn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because Danny leaves for afternoon practice at one, closing the door quietly behind him, and Cam comes barging in from school at about two-twenty.

“Anybody home?” he yells from the doorway, and Claude answers before his brain even has time to process it.

“Yeah, just me.”

Cam finds him in record time, slinging his backpack onto the floor and flopping into the chair Danny left empty. He even crosses his feet on the coffee table, same as his dad, and it makes them look so similar even though they look nothing alike at all.

“What are you doing in here?” Cam asks. “These couches suck.”

“Yeah,” Claude agrees. “Just napping, I guess.”

Cam rolls his eyes. “You're the worst liar.”

Claude nods in acceptance and then asks, “Why aren't you at practice?”

“I’d rather hang out with you,” Cam says flippantly. Casually.

“ _You're_ the worst liar,” Claude shoots back, and that, at least, makes Cam smile. It doesn't last long, and the smile slips off Cam’s face, leaving worry in its wake.

“Hey, Claude, can I ask you something?”

It sounds serious, so Claude wants to say, _No_. Wants to say, _I’m probably not the right person for this_ , or, _I can't even solve my own problems._ Instead, he says, “Sure.”

“Do you think Dad would be mad if I quit hockey?” he rushes out.

“Uh,” Claude says. He's not really qualified on what will or won't set Danny off, thought a kiss after a declaration of love was a sure thing. “I don't really know what your dad thinks about anything anymore, honestly.”

“No, I know,” Cam says, waving a hand, “but you guys are basically the same. I _like_ hockey, but travel hockey means I can't play lacrosse. And I really just want to _try_ it.”

“Oh,” Claude says, again just stalling for time to think. Cam looks genuinely worried, in the way where he's trying so hard to seem nonchalant, and although Claude gets why he's worried, what with his pro-hockey-playing father and all, it's just a game. It's Danny’s career and Claude’s whole life, but even then, hockey’s just a game to most people. “I don't, uh. I think so long as you're not in jail, he won't mind. You know? I think your happiness is what matters. For your dad.”

“And for you?” Cam asks, his voice small and, for the first time, unsure.

And for Claude, the answer is the easiest thing he's dealt with all day, despite not knowing Cam, despite not feeling like a parental figure or someone who has any say in the matter. Despite not caring about lacrosse. Despite not knowing what it feels like to take a family picture, the five of them in suits, jackets slung over shoulders, laughing.

“If you're happy, I'm happy,” he says.

“That's all it takes?” Cam asks.

“That's all it takes.”

 

Danny’s buzzing with low-level worry by the time he gets home, late but before anyone starts making dinner. Claude guesses maybe that’s on him, dinner-making, since he’s the only other person in the house who can somewhat pass as an adult, but he hadn’t gotten much past opening the fridge before getting distracted. The boys are all on the couch, Carson spread out on a mound of pillows on the floor, and the four of them are playing Mario Party. It’s a different version than Claude remembers, a different console, but it’s basically the same.

None of them hear Danny come in. Claude feels it—the slight worry, the irritation over a red light, and then an overwhelming wave of fondness—but he doesn’t realize Danny’s home either, not until Danny announces it. Claude’s too busy dominating at Ballistic Beach.

“ _Claude_!” Caelan yells, throwing his controller in the air out of frustration, then yelping when it hits him on the foot on the way back down. Carson erupts with laughter.

“That wasn’t _fair_ ,” Cam says, most likely talking about how Claude shouldered his way into Cam’s line of view, pushing him into Caelan at the other end of the couch.

“You boys should know by now,” Danny says from the doorway. His cheeks are red from the outdoor cold, his smile soft and honest. “When does Claude ever play fair?”

“Never,” Cam says, at the same time as Carson says, “Well, there was that one time at bocce…”

“Hey,” Claude says, with all sorts of bravado that he doesn’t feel now that Danny’s home. “I can’t help that I’m multitalented. It would be doing you a disservice to just let you win.”

“It’s not _letting us_ when we earn it _fair and square_ ,” Caelan points out.

“Yeah,” Cam agrees, and that’s when Danny steps fully into the living room.

“How’re you feeling, Cam?” Danny asks, and with one open hand, pushes Cam’s hair back away from his face, resting his palm on Cam’s forehead and then the side of his face. “Coach said you went home sick today.”

“Oh,” Cam says, like he hadn’t planned this far ahead. His eyes dart to Claude and then back to Danny, and Claude doesn’t say anything because it doesn’t really feel like it’s his place to.

He thinks, maybe, that he should rethink that, when Danny starts thinking _worry, concern, Cam eating Dinosaur Egg Oatmeal while sitting in an oatmeal bath, Cam sitting on a kitchen chair while Claude says, I don’t know, I think the camouflage Band-Aid might look a little cooler, Cam being pulled out of the car wreck, later saying, The ambulance ride was so cool, and the entire week that Cam was sick and wouldn’t eat anything but grilled cheese and tomato soup, Cam falling asleep in the sitting room, wrapped in a Flyers snuggie with crumpled tissues everywhere_ —

“I think maybe I ate something,” Cam says. “But I feel better now.”

“Okay,” Danny says, sounding unsure. “You let me know how you feel later, alright?”

“Okay,” Cam says, and Danny finally straightens, lets his hand fall away from Cam’s skin.

“Alright, well, I’m just going to change, but then are you boys ready for dinner?” Danny asks. “Cajun chicken pasta okay?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Caelan says, only half paying attention to Danny as he unpauses the game. Happy music fills the room.

“Dad, you’re in the way,” Cam whines, and Danny huffs out a laugh.

“A little love would be nice,” he says, then rolls his eyes and turns to head up the stairs when he goes ignored. Before Claude even realizes what he’s doing, he’s putting his own controller on the couch beside him and standing up.

“Where are you going?” Carson asks.

“It’s not my turn,” Claude tells him. “Keep playing; I’ll be right back.”

Claude darts up the stairs, pushing his way through the bedroom door just in time to see Danny pulling his t-shirt overhead. He can hear the static electricity as the cloth runs over his hair, and looking at Danny, shirtless and standing there in their bedroom, in a place where, if it were any other day, Danny would be Claude’s—

Claude just wants. Simple as that.

“Claude?” Danny asks, when Claude doesn’t say anything. There’s no way Danny can’t feel what Claude’s feeling, but he doesn’t mention it. “Everything alright?”

“Cam’s not sick,” he blurts out. “Don’t—I mean, don’t tell him that I told you that, but he skipped practice. I just don’t like it when you’re worried like that. He’s fine.”

Danny smiles at Claude like he’s amused, and it makes him look so much like a father, that knowing look.

“Claude,” he says slowly, still smiling just a little. “Of course he’s not sick. And of course he knows you’re telling me.”

“Oh,” Claude says. “But the—” Cam sick, Cam hurt, Cam, Cam, Cam. He waves a hand, gestures at his own head. “All those memories. And you _were_ worried.”

“I’m always worried these days,” Danny says, a half joke that falls a little flat. He grabs a folded shirt from the dresser and shakes it out at the hem. For the split second that he’s looking away, focused on pulling the new shirt overhead, Claude lets his eyes wander over Danny’s torso, the ridges of his collarbones, his flat nipples and the hair at his navel. “It was just a knee-jerk reaction; Cam says he’s sick, so I think of Cam when he’s sick, whether I believe what he’s saying or not. I’ll try not to—”

“ _Claude_!” two of the boys holler in tandem. “Cla-aude! It’s your turn!”

Claude looks away from Danny and finds it hard to look back, but impossible not to. He hooks one thumb over his shoulder, can’t find the words.

“I’ll see you down there,” Danny says for him. His voice is light, his thoughts even, but for some reason Claude still feels like he’s being dismissed. “And thanks for telling me about Cam.”

“Yeah, but—” Claude starts, and then stops because he doesn’t know where he was going with that, anyway. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out through his mouth in a rush. “I feel like I’m fucking up. I don’t know what I could possibly—but I feel like I’m fucking something up.”

Danny pauses in what he’s doing and looks at Claude, searchingly, for a long moment. He smiles the kind of smile that would look like a frown in any other lighting and says, “You’re not fucking up, Claude,” but thinks, _Chop the peppers, is the chicken defrosted, sign Caelan’s permission slip, someone has to do laundry, walk the dogs, where’s my deodorant, Carson’s—_

“I don’t believe you,” Claude says, because how else can he say, _What are you hiding under all of that?_ He realizes now, in this moment, that there’s a very real possibility that later he remembers, comes back to being who he’s supposed to be, only to realize that the him-who-forgot ruined everything, and pushed everyone away.

Danny must feel Claude’s building anxiety and fear, because he steps forward and places one hand on either side of Claude’s face, makes Claude look at him. His eyes dart back and forth between the two of Claude’s, and the feel of his calluses on Claude’s skin feels like something Claude might remember from years ago, or maybe just from dreaming about.

“Claude,” Danny says seriously, and now, there’s nothing but honesty and focus in his words. “You are a great father and a great bondmate, and you always have been, and you always will be. Things are hard right now for all of us, but none of that has changed. We love you.”

And Claude thinks—a great father, fuck, he’s not ready to be a _father_ , not yet, not at eighteen or twenty-five or whatever age he is. He’s _not ready_ to be a father or a step-dad or anything vaguely resembling responsible—isn’t even ready to be captain of a hockey team—but he finds that he likes the thought of being good at it, anyway, likes that Danny thinks he is. Another second goes by, and then Claude nods, because Danny’s feeling everything he’s saying, and Claude can’t help but believe him. Want to believe him.

“Okay,” Claude says, surprising himself when his voice comes out thick, wet. He pulls away from Danny’s hands and wipes at his cheek with one of his own, but it’s dry.

“Okay?” Danny asks, another meaning entirely.

Claude nods a few times and then responds, “Okay.” Because he is now, he thinks. Or will be.

Just needs to remember how to be, really.

 

That night, upstairs, when the boys are asleep in their bedrooms and Danny’s winding down in the guest room, Claude tries to make himself remember by force of sheer will alone.

He starts in the bathroom, mostly because he doesn’t expect to find anything there, and figures it’s a good way to work up to the big stuff. The medicine cabinet is full of Advil and DayQuil and a tin of Band-Aids, a round tub of hair gel. Normal stuff, boring stuff. Things Claude might’ve had in his cabinets when he was actually eighteen, and the cabinet under the sink is no different: sunscreen, rolls of toilet paper, some household cleaners.

Claude’s knees crack when he stands up, and they ache a bit from kneeling on the tile, even for such a short period of time. He catches sight of himself in the mirror—long, messy hair, broad shoulders and a missing tooth—and it feels like eons ago since he first learned what he looked like, terrified and alone and feeling too much from the bond. The headaches are completely gone now, and Claude understands now how the bond works, but a part of himself still sort of misses that hyper-connection he had with Danny. He doesn’t get why, and doesn’t waste any of his time trying to; it just doesn’t matter anymore.

Claude wastes no time in heading over to the closet. The right side is Danny’s side, and Claude pokes around, but there’s really nothing there, and nothing on the left, either. Just clothes and shoes, more of both than Claude knows what to do with, a lot of orange and a lot of grey. There’s a notebook stacked on one of the high shelves, nearly hidden underneath a pair of folded jeans, and for a second Claude is so certain that this is it, this is something _big_ , only when he flips open the cover, he’s faced with hockey plays and financial notes.

“Come on,” Claude says to himself, flipping through the pages quickly. “Are you kidding me?” He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, or even what he’s hoping for, but this shit—

This isn’t going to help him remember. And it’s in that moment that Claude realizes nothing will help him remember—he either will or he won’t—and that’s when the panic sets in. He has to remember. He _needs_ to remember, for Danny, yes, and for the kids, but he needs to remember for _himself_. He can’t do this forever, can’t _be_ this forever, this half-person that he is, not a kid but not an adult, not a player but not a fan, not himself but not anyone else, not anything at all—

Claude tosses the notebook back up on the shelf and turns on his heel, heads out to the bedroom. He tries to calm his breathing by telling himself that it isn’t helping anything. Danny sends him something that feels like peace, like iced tea on a hot day, like Hearst air in the winter, but Claude ignores it. None of that _helps_. If any of that helped, he would know who the fuck he is already.

There must be something that he can use, Claude figures. Must be something that’ll jump-start another memory, bring a bit of himself back. He yanks open the dresser drawers, but there’s nothing there, clothes and socks and shit that doesn’t matter. Claude pulls some of it out, tosses it on the floor just to get to the bottom of the drawer, but there’s nothing there, just wood.

There are photos on the dresser that have been staring at Claude since he got there, them and the boys, Claude’s family, Danny’s family. A hockey team. Nothing. Papers weighted down by a game-used puck, a contract for some charity work and random receipts from Bed Bath & Beyond. Claude spreads them out wildly, but they could be anyone’s. They’re not Claude’s, or if they are, they’re not _this_ Claude’s.

The end tables are what usually hold the most personal stuff, Claude thinks wildly, but when he pulls open the drawer of the one closest to him—

A non-fiction book by Jared Diamond, condoms, and two fucking bottles of lube.

Great.

Motherfucking _great_ , that just solves it. Who is Claude? Claude’s the kind of guy who prefers Kimono Micro Thins over Durex and Trojan. _Of course_. What the fuck else could he possibly want to know about himself? Could he not have given himself _a little bit_ of help? He’s not asking for much, maybe just a heads up, like, _Claude, you’re into environmental documentaries now_ , or, _Gluten’s not a thing you do anymore, Claude,_ or maybe even a little sticky note that’ll tell Claude whether he tops or bottoms, or if he’s happy, or what his favorite color is, or any little thing that’ll tell him who he is now.

Claude’s knows he’s lucky to have already started remembering a few things; he just wants to keep remembering _more_. But the _more_ never comes, and the longer Claude spends snooping around his own fucking room, the more out of sorts he feels, and the harder it is for him to breathe. His vision swims and then blacks out around the edges, and Claude thought the bond was stable, was so sure that they were past this, but maybe—maybe the bond really is broken, or maybe it’s post-concussion symptoms, or maybe his skin is just on fire, because the room is suddenly so hot, and he needs to breathe, Claude, breathe, it’s alright, an open palm rubbing up and down his arm, you’re fine, Claude, but he’s not and might never be, I know this is hard, I _know_ , deep breaths, like that—

A cool hand pushing his hair back, then resting on the side of his face. Claude is startled into clarity. He thinks, fleetingly, of Cameron.

“Claude?” Danny asks softly. He and Claude are sitting on the floor, and Claude takes a deep, shuddering breath and leans back against the side of the bed. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah,” Claude says, and he presses the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until the colorful pinpricks of light return. “Was that—is the bond—”

Danny says, “That wasn't the bond, Claude; you were having a panic attack.” Claude scoffs, and Danny asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Claude snaps, but then keeps talking. “I don't even know who the fuck I am, Danny. Do you get how frustrating that is? And then when I do remember something, it's completely useless and doesn't tell me _anything_. I've only remembered three things— _three_ —and what? I'm supposed to just be okay with that?” Claude waves his hands around at the room. “None of this shit is mine! I don't live here.”

He falls quiet once he gets that out, his strings suddenly cut as he loses all energy. Danny’s still looking at him, still looking beautiful and calm and in control, and Claude hates him so much, except for how Claude loves him more than anything.

“Where’s this coming from?” Danny asks, and even without the bond, Claude knows he means, _why now_ , and not, _why at all_ , knows he wants to ask about Claude remembering but that's not the point.

It's almost embarrassing. Claude almost doesn't want to say it. Doesn't know how to say, _I want to know why I love you,_ won't let himself say, _I hate that I know everyone else better than I know myself_.

Instead, he waves a hand toward the end table.

“We’ve had sex,” he says evenly. A fact.

There’s a pause, like Danny’s trying to work out where he’s going with this, and then a slow, hesitant, “Yes.”

Claude nods to himself because he knew that. They're bonded; share a bed, even. Of course he knew that.

“I've never even kissed you,” Claude admits quietly, and he feels Danny’s heart stutter.

“Claude,” Danny says, voice thick, and that's not the point of any of this, so Claude rushes to explain.

“That’s not—that's not what I meant. I mean, it is, but what I really meant was that you have all these memories of me, and I have none of them. Of anything, I mean, not just of us… doing that. I _know_ I'm not eighteen, so I'm trying to be twenty-five, but you won't let me. If I'm dependent on you, it's because you're making me be.”

“Claude,” Danny says again, his eyes searching Claude’s face, his lips moving slightly even though he doesn't say anything else for a few beats longer. “Claude, I'm trying.”

“I'm trying, too,” Claude says, even though he's not doing any better at it than Danny is. He looks around at the mess he’s made of the room. “It's just really fucking hard, sometimes. Even though we’re trying.”

Danny smiles, small and sad. “I'll keep trying for as long as it takes,” he says like a consolation.

“I know.”

“I meant it when I said it, Claude,” Danny says. “You remember a week from now, or a year from now, or you never remember at all—I'll keep trying for as long as you'll keep letting me.”

“I know you will,” Claude says again, and this time, Danny nods like he finally understands what Claude really means.

“You should get some rest,” Danny says, rubbing his palms along the front of his thighs. “Don't worry about the mess.”

“I'll clean it up in the morning,” Claude assures him.

“Claude,” Danny says, “I don't care about the mess.”

And Claude means to reply, but Danny’s just looking at him, and keeps looking at him, and the longer Claude looks back, the harder he finds it to look away. The room is suddenly so quiet and too small. Danny seems larger than life. Claude does nothing to stop him as he presses his fingertips into the back of Claude’s hand, where it rests on the carpet. Claude looks down, looks at their two hands, at his nails, bitten down as far as they'll go, at the bruised knuckle of Danny’s fourth finger.

When he looks up, Danny’s leaning in.

Claude jerks back.

“I don't want you to do anything you're uncomfortable with,” Claude says. That wasn't the point of any of this. Claude’s been kissed before; that's not the _point_.

Danny smiles, small and fragile. “That's what I was trying to say to you. We just kept misunderstanding each other, I guess.”

He waits for Claude to smile and nod, and then he leans in again, and this time, Claude doesn't lean away. Danny presses his lips into Claude’s; Claude presses his own lips right back into Danny’s, and that's all it is: the press of two sets of lips against one another. Claude’s lips aren't chapped, and Danny’s aren't either; there's no tongue or teeth or heavy petting. It's just a kiss, but Claude still feels it sparking in his chest, turning over in his stomach, blowing his mind wide open, Danny’s love and Danny’s worry, Danny’s quiet lust, _the warmth in his fingertips from the back of Claude’s hand, the press of the carpet on his bare feet. Danny’s voice cracking as he says, Move in with us, Claude’s even and steady when he replies, Okay. The first time Danny helped Claude take off his shirt, the way Danny’s hands fumbled and shook, Been a while since..., and he meant since he cared about the person on the other end of things, or maybe just since Sylvie, but couldn't bear to say it. Claude’s easy smile and how he wasn't worried, was never worried. What's there to be worried about? It's just you. And then it was, it was just them._

Danny breaks away, and the kiss only lasted a handful of seconds, but to Claude it feels like it could've been an eternity. He's sure his pupils are blown wide like Danny’s, isn't sure whose pulse it is that he feels racing in his throat.

“We're really good at that,” Claude says, dazed, and Danny smiles like he's trying to hide it, flushes pink to the tips of his ears.

Claude tells himself to remember it, how Danny looks and feels in that moment. Tells himself to remember that much, even if he forgets everything else all over again.

 

“Claude!”

Claude startles awake, tangled in the bedsheets, and almost falls off the bed. The room around him is a disaster, clothes and papers everywhere, and for the quickest of split seconds, Claude thinks there’s been an earthquake.

“Cla- _aude_!”

And Claude just—

He’s not awake, not really, and so he falls out of bed and stumbles downstairs as quickly as he can, wearing nothing other than the boxer briefs he passed out in. It's not _cold_ in the house, but he just woke up and he's mostly naked, so it's not warm, either.

It doesn't matter; someone could be hurt.

Claude races wildly through the living room and toward the kitchen, where he sees the lights are on. He can hear noise, the clatter of a spoon and some mumbled words, but it's not enough to keep Claude from immediately expecting disaster. Maybe Cam tried to make oatmeal and spilled the pot of boiling water; maybe Carson accidentally cut himself slicing an apple. Maybe it's something Claude can't even imagine, too horrible for his brain to even come up with, and Claude let it happen to Danny’s children.

He skids into the kitchen, saying, “What? What happened, who’s—”

— _hurt_ , is what he means to say, but everyone's fine. Caelan and Carson are sitting at the kitchen table, already dressed for school, and Cam’s kneeling on one of the breakfast bar stools as he squeezes Hershey’s syrup into four separate cups of milk.

Danny’s pulling a tray out of the oven, and Claude kissed him last night.

“Where’s the fire?” Carson deadpans, and Caelan snickers.

“Made you chocolate milk, G,” Cam says, stirring the drinks, and Caelan speaks up before Cam’s even done talking.

“Put on a shirt, Claude,” he says. “This is a _fancy establishment_.”

Danny’s thinking about how much he likes the way Claude looks shirtless, but he only just rolls his eyes instead of saying anything.

“There’s not…” Claude starts, flushing under Danny’s gaze and over the situation as a whole. “Everything’s okay?”

“Huh?” Cam says, looking up from what he’s doing and inadvertently squirting a bit of syrup on the counter. “Yeah, we’re fine… Oh, shoot.”

“Didn't want you to miss Crazy Breakfast,” Carson says, like that explains anything, and Claude stands there mostly naked for another moment longer before Danny explains.

“Once a month, I let them talk us into pizza for breakfast,” he says with a helpless shrug, taking a sponge to the countertop by the chocolate milk. His face makes him look like he's embarrassed, but Claude knows what he’s actually feeling, how he’s happy and content, loving and feeling loved. Danny pushes a memory toward him: _the hum of_ _Danny’s desire to have Claude’s kitchen seat filled, his worry over Claude getting enough rest and over how Claude would take the night before; the boys being so adamant that Claude couldn't miss out on this morning, No, Dad, he loves Crazy Breakfast_ , _and_ , _I’m pretty sure I read that pizza is good for concussion patients. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere_ ; _the boys banging their silverware on the tabletop, hollering Claude’s name; Danny’s hyper focus on the oven when Claude walks in, shirtless and sleep-rumpled, looking like everything Danny loves and wants and will always want but can't have right now, not when things are so fragile, not when one wrong move might mean_ —

“It was tacos one time, too,” Cam points out. Danny quickly reels in his line of thought. “It's really fun. Dad started it when you were weren't here because he can't cook—”

“Hey, I can cook some things!” Danny says, and then as an example, throws out, “Toast.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Caelan says. “ _Stop_.”

“We were just kids when he did it the first time,” Cam explains.

“You're just kids now,” Claude points out.

“ _You're_ just kids,” Caelan says defensively, and Carson laughs.

“Anyway,” Cam says, walking the chocolate milks over to the kitchen table, two at a time. “I guess it's still kind of cool, now.”

“You guess,” Danny teases. “Well, if you only _guess, I_ guess I'll have to eat this pizza on my own.”

“No!” Cam rushes. “No, I didn't—I still want some.”

“Right,” Claude says. He likes this side of Danny, the fatherly side that he’s hardly gotten to see. It makes him seem younger, a little less weighed down by all of Claude’s baggage. And with that self-reminder, Claude feels all of a sudden awkward and out of place. “I'm just gonna go… put on some clothes.”

“I don't get why you came down naked to begin with,” Caelan says.

“You guys were screaming at seven in the morning; I thought someone was dying!”

The boys laugh, even though Claude wasn’t really joking, and Danny waves the pizza cutter in some vague gesture that Claude can't interpret and probably doesn't have meaning.

“You wanted normal,” Danny says fondly. “This is as close as we get.”

And if this is normal… Claude likes normal, he thinks. But normal feels sort of...

Claude likes feeling loved, feeling needed and wanted, but something doesn’t feel exactly right about this morning. Or maybe it’s just now that he’s the chance to reflect, _he_ doesn’t feel right about this morning. A few days ago, Claude wanted nothing to do with the Brieres; last night, he kissed Danny, and just now, he came racing down the stairs, heart in his throat, worry coursing through every nook and cranny of his thoughts that something might be wrong with Danny, or _worse—_

Worse, something might’ve be wrong with their _kids_ , and Claude slept right through it, did nothing at all to prove Danny’s claim that Claude was a good parent.

“Okay?” Danny asks quietly, and Claude looks at the boys. Caelan and Carson are teasing Cam, who’s getting red and worked up, and none of them pay Claude or Danny any attention. Maybe that’s why Claude owns up to it.

“I don’t feel like me,” he says, and at Danny’s questioning face, his confused thoughts, Claude explains slowly, “I mean… I don’t feel like who I thought I was, anymore. Like eighteen. I don’t—” Claude makes a noise of frustration, closes and opens the fingers of one fist. “I was just—”

_Worried_ , he thinks. _Scared, terrified, Danny would be bad enough, but the boys? Their_ kids _? No. Claude falling out of bed, stepping over his slippers, no time, racing down the stairs, the boys, maybe someone’s hurt. Claude’s fault. Danny’s fault. No one’s fault. Cam in the hospital after the car accident, maybe a memory but maybe not. Caelan with a leg cast on, hobbling on crutches. Carson with a split eyebrow from a fall. Claude terrified that the truth of being a dad is feeling like this always. Danny standing in the kitchen with a pizza cutter, feeling so, so happy, and yes, Claude, it’s true_.

“Good,” Danny says, his voice rough. “That’s—yeah.”

Claude doesn’t know what to say, either.

 

Once the boys leave for school, Danny and Claude drive to Voorhees, still in relative silence. It doesn’t feel tense or awkward, but it does feel _full_ , neither of them wanting to say anything or jinx anything, neither of them wanting to put into words something that might be a maybe.

Claude’s remembering. That’s what they don’t want to say.

“We’re here,” Danny says instead, when he parks in the lot.

“Docs are this way, yeah?” Claude says instead, when he turns left and Danny goes straight.

“Enjoy the bike,” Danny tells him, meaning, _Remember, remember_.

“See you later,” Claude replies, meaning _, I am. Danny, I am_.

And he means it, some part of him, even if he doesn’t have the nerve to say it. He’s remembering even when he doesn’t realize it, and maybe one day soon he’ll remember enough to be the Claude that Danny wants. But putting that into words… It feels risky. Claude remembers always being the idiot who took unnecessary risks, following through on dares to walk out onto partially frozen ponds, spend a half hour without a jacket while sitting surrounded by the Hearst mosquitos, but now—

Now, he feels like he has something to lose. That’s new, for Claude.

Dorsh isn’t in the trainers’ offices when Claude gets there. It’s weird, because Claude is there to see the trainers and to work out, but he’s not surprised to see Dorsh’s office empty, and the door to the neighboring office open. Dorsh is a doctor; Dorsh works at the hospital most of the week.

“Come on in, Claude,” a voice calls out from inside the lit office. The nameplate on the door says _Jim McCrossin_ , but the name doesn’t ring any bells, and neither does the face of the older, greying man inside. He’s clearly one of their athletic trainers; he’s old, but he looks strong. Looks like he could kick Claude’s ass if he tried, at least on a good day. He’s not smiling a hello, but some part of Claude finds that… expected.

“Hey,” Claude says. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, really, but it doesn’t matter; Jim waves him off before he even tries to.

“Don’t sweat it,” Jim says. “Let’s find out how you’re doing and then get you on a bike, yeah? I’ve got Sal meeting you down at the gym.”

“Oh,” Claude says, sort of taken aback by how Jim skips the pleasantries. He finds himself liking it, how Jim doesn’t treat him with kid gloves, doesn’t worry that Claude won’t be able to handle business just because Claude’s not himself.

Claude’s there for hockey; if there’s one thing Claude knows how to handle, it’s hockey, whether he’s eight or eighteen, or twenty-five and the captain of the Philadelphia Flyers.

“Claude?” Jim says. He sounds like it’s not his first time saying it. “Good to get going?”

“Yeah,” Claude says. He finally feels like he is.

Jim asks Claude about his head, about how he feels climbing the stairs, about what he’s been eating while injured. He asks Claude if he has any pain in his neck or shoulders, if he has trouble remembering things as they’re happening, if there’s any reason that he’s aware of that he shouldn’t be on the bike. Claude tells him the truth, that he feels better and is ready to be on the bike, ready to be on the ice, ready to be back.

“Alright,” Jim says. “What time is it? Almost nine? Sal’ll be in the cardio room soon; go bike with him and get a rubdown after. And you say something if you don’t feel right, okay? Rushing it now will only slow you down in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Claude says. “Of course, yeah.”

“Good,” Jim says, a small smile finally on his face. “Alright, get out of here.”

Claude nods and ducks out of the room, walks down the hall toward where everything is, toward where the gym must be, too. He follows the orange and black stripes along the walls, tries to hold back on how antsy he feels to be working out again.

From down the hall, someone calls out, “G-Baby! Hey, hey, brother man!”

Claude waves automatically, and then whoever it is, dressed head-to-toe in gear, exits through the doorway that leads out to the ice. For a second, Claude thinks about following him, just to take a peek at their practice routine, but he gets distracted: the room directly across the hall from the ice is the locker room.

Claude figures it can’t hurt, and he’ll be quick. He ducks in and takes it all in, tries to imagine himself belonging in a place like this, at a stall like the ones in front of him. He reaches out and rubs a hand over the wood separating Voracek and Simmonds; there are divots in the wood, and chipped paint, and it’s not really—

It’s not any _different_ , is the thing. Claude took a huge chunk out of the wood of his stall back in Gatineau, just from not paying attention to his skate blades when tossing them up top, and then spent the next week trying to hide it by strategically draping his shirts over the divot. Maybe that stall wasn’t _here_ , wasn’t at a rink used by an NHL team, but it’s not really any different. It’s just a stall. Just a locker room, same as any other.

Claude looks around for his own, and finds it halfway across the room. _Claude Giroux_ , the nameplate says, right next to _Daniel Briere_. It makes sense, the two of them together. Claude wonders if they asked for it.

He sits down on the bench right in front of his stuff. Most of the stalls are in various states of empty, but Claude’s is mostly full, his breezers still there, his socks and his tape, two pairs of skates tucked away on the shelf up top. Claude looks around at the room, tries to imagine it full but can only imagine Danny, _Danny standing in front of him in long compression pants and high knee socks, a backwards hat and a Flyers orange shirt, soaked through with sweat. He’s drinking Gatorade, the line of his neck long, and although he looks good, it doesn’t distract Claude; Danny always looks good, and Claude’s always looking at him out of the corner of his eyes while focusing on something else entirely. Hell of a pass, G, Raffl’s saying, but Vora shakes his head, jokes, I saw better in the Q. Claude laughs, and Danny uses the hem of his shirt to wipe at his mouth._

Sitting there in the locker room, Claude blinks hard and shakes the memory out from in front of his eyes. The clock above the door says it’s two minutes to nine, and he really shouldn’t keep Sal waiting. Straightening his legs, Claude gets up off the bench and turns to cross the room toward the door, only something causes him to stop and look back at his stall.

Claude reaches out and fingers the sleeve of one of his shirts, the bright orange wicking fabric. That’s Claude’s name on the back; that’s Claude’s number. He runs a palm over the front of the shirt, over the Flyers logo.

That’s Claude’s C, whether he remembers earning it or not.

Claude grabs the grey tee he’s wearing by the back of the collar and pulls it up over his head. He thinks it should feel like a bigger deal than it turns out to be, tugging the orange shirt off of its hanger. He pulls it on over his head, and for a second, the world in front of Claude’s eyes is all orange, and nothing else. Then: the locker room, back in focus, Claude’s hair hanging in front of his eyes. He lets his fingertips wander over the C on the front.

If his eyes were closed, Claude wouldn’t even know it was there. He can’t distinguish the C by feel alone, can’t tell it’s there by the weight or texture of the fabric.

It’s just a shirt, though, Claude realizes. Just a shirt.

He heads out to meet Sal in the cardio room.

 

Danny finds him later, as he’s laid out on the table after his massage. He’s tired, but in a good way: he feels like he’s coming out the other side of things, like he’s tired from walking uphill, and now gets to let the natural slope of the hill carry him down the other side. Part of that is the massage, Claude knows, making him relaxed and sleepy, but an equally large part is how he’s finally returning back to himself, bit by bit. He doesn’t even hear Danny walk in, too used to tuning out the bustling noises of Jack, the massage therapist, as he moved around the office.

“Hey,” Danny says, and when he does, Claude cracks open his eyes.

“Hey,” Claude says back. He should probably sit up, but Danny pulls a chair over and sits by the side of the table, rests his forearms along the edge. He’s dressed, freshly showered and back in his street clothes.

“Bike okay?” Danny asks. “No problems with your head?”

He already knows, so Claude doesn’t bother answering, just thinks, _No, the burn in his legs, towel draped over the handlebars, Sal laughing at the movie on tv as he adjusts the resistance on Claude’s bike_. Danny hums in acknowledgement, and Claude shifts over onto his side.

Danny’s so close. His hair is still wet and sticking to his forehead in places, the apples of his cheeks flushed red. He looks at Claude with such soft eyes, and Claude wants to kiss him again, wants to always be kissing him.

“Give me a minute and we can go home,” Claude says instead.

“Take your time,” Danny tells him, and he motions to get up.

That’s not what Claude meant, though, and when Danny’s halfway out of his chair, Claude darts out one hand and wraps his fingers clumsily around Danny’s wrist, _love, so much love, the way Claude’s looking at him now, tired and relaxed. Claude naked in bed, looking just like that, their come on his skin, and Danny can’t stop looking, not at Claude in bed, not at Claude on the table, or at Claude in their backyard, marrying Danny just because Danny wanted it, their boys and their dogs watching. The itch in his fingers from the desire to push hair off of his forehead. The ghost feel of a palm down his back_.

“Okay,” Danny says quietly, and he sits back down, forearms back on the table. Claude knows what he saw, wonders what Danny saw through the bond to make him do that. He’s tired of guessing, tired of _waiting_ ; he’s ready to remember everything now, whatever that entails.

The memories don’t come, not while they sit there, but it’s nice, regardless. Claude likes the feel of his fingers on Danny’s skin, likes that Danny likes Claude liking it.

When they do leave, it’s almost ten full minutes later, Claude slipping his feet back into his moccasins and announcing that he’ll just shower at home. Danny doesn’t mind waiting, Claude knows, but Claude’s ready to be out of here, and so they leave.

They’re quiet in the car again, only this time, it’s a different type of quiet: they’re not quiet because they’re avoiding saying something. This time, they’re quiet because they’re feeling, _being_ , and the bond pulses between them. Claude thinks it feels sort of like the tide, in a soothing way: Danny’s thoughts wash into Claude’s head, and then leave, pulling some of Claude’s thoughts back to Danny before washing back in again.

“It’s kind of like one of those white noise machines,” Claude says out of the blue, and Danny smiles at the comparison.

“For you, maybe,” he teases, “but your thoughts are too all over the place to be calming for me.”

“No, they’re not,” Claude says, a knee-jerk reaction. Danny doesn’t bother arguing it, because that’s not the point, and they both know that. Claude’s not sure he knows what the point is, but he knows what it isn’t. Thinks maybe, possibly, the point of it all is to just be honest, be himself. “Can I hold your hand?”

It’s embarrassing, for a split second, and all Claude can think about is Danny saying no to a kiss. He didn’t mean to say it, either, because this Claude’s still not—

Danny says he wants whatever version of Claude he can have, but Claude can’t believe that. He believes that _Danny_ believes that, but if Danny had to choose, right now, between this Claude and the Claude from before the hit, there’s no way this Claude is getting picked. That’s just the fact of the matter, and Claude doesn’t care if Danny hears him thinking it. It’s the truth.

Danny doesn’t answer. There’s nothing he can say, really, because he’s already been saying it this entire time, and Claude just still doesn’t believe him. Instead, Danny flips his hand over from where it’s dangling off the center console, so that it’s palm-up.

Claude laces their fingers together and focuses on the way Danny’s thumb travels back and forth over the skin that it can reach. They’ve done this before, Claude knows, just like this, and the memory of it tickles the back of his mind, more deja vu than anything else.

“Gatineau?” Claude asks, although he doesn’t know what the Q has anything to do with it. He keeps thinking, works it through.

Gatineau. _Gatineau_.

Not the Q—Danny’s from Gatineau. Danny’s taken him there before, shown him the other side of things, _Claude with the Brieres the first time back after the bonding, not quite a Briere himself, not yet a Brioux. Everyone crammed in the rental as Danny drove to Pink Lake. It’s not actually pink, Cam told him, in case Claude didn’t know. Carson added, It’s actually green because of algae; I read it on Wikipedia. Claude didn’t know what to say, so he said, That’s a cool fact, and Cam agreed, Yeah, I think so, and in a bold move, Danny took Claude’s hand across the center console._

“Gatineau,” Danny agrees, his voice even, his left hand easy on the steering wheel.

 

They have Shake ’n Bake chicken for dinner that night, because Danny can’t really cook, and Claude can't really remember how to. The boys really like this meal, though; Claude feels like he can remember that much, if he really tries. Or, maybe not remember the memory, but the feeling of it.

“It's not _really_ cooking,” Cam explains, shaking the large plastic bag containing the chicken and the bread crumbs. He’s in the middle of the kitchen, dancing from one foot to the other as he does; Caelan and Carson are doing homework at the kitchen table, and Claude can hear their muffled laughter ringing deep in his chest.

“Oh, really?” Danny asks. “What is it, then?”

“It's putting chicken in a bag and shaking it!” Carson hollers over, and Cam laughs up a storm.

“Yeah,” Cam agrees, “it's putting chicken in a bag and shaking it.”

Danny looks over to Claude and rolls his eyes just a little, but he's smiling as he does, and Claude doesn't buy it. Danny feels happy, enamored, _that time Cam spilled the bread crumbs all over the kitchen floor, the dogs running over as Danny tried to keep them at bay with one foot, the way Claude looked running his fingers through this hair, Awesome, now we have an excuse to order pizza, Cam’s wobbly smile, pulled back from the verge of tears, as he laughs_.

Someone slings an arm over Claude’s shoulders, shaking him out of looking at Danny; it's Caelan, and he has to stand on tiptoe to reach.

“What's up, Claude,” Caelan says, not a question. And then to the group, “I am the algebra master; thank you, thank you.” He waves a hand in the air like he's thanking an imaginary audience.

“It’s an honor to be near you,” Claude deadpans, and Caelan tries to hide his smile.

“It _should_ be,” he shoots back, and then reaches over the breakfast bar to snag a cherry tomato off of the counter, one arm still slung around Claude’s shoulders with easy familiarity.

“No, it shouldn't,” Carson says, but he's not heated about it. “You looked at the freaking answers in the back of the book.”

“Hey, none of that,” Danny scolds.

“What? I said _freaking_.”

Danny helps Cam lay the coated chicken out on a tray and says, “Still. I don't like that.”

Carson doesn't respond, just leaves his mouth open in disbelief for a second before shaking it off. Caelan laughs, and that's what gets the rise out of him; Carson shoves Caelan lightly, who nearly tips Claude over.

It's really not that bad, the kind of bump that Claude wouldn’t even notice on the ice, but he still jokes, “Whoa, whoa. Precious cargo over here.” He’s feeling happy, and Danny’s feeling happy, and Claude wants to keep that going. Wants to keep feeling this much love for the people around him.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Caelan stresses, seriously. And then, as if realizing it came across maybe _too_ seriously, he stretches his hands wide over Claude’s messy hair and says haughtily, “The _brain_ must _remain_ without _pain_.”

A beat passes in silence, and then Carson just asks, “What is wrong with you?”

Danny laughs a little, and Cam laughs a little more, and Claude just likes how it feels to think that these people are his.

They’re still laughing when Danny’s phone rings, and Danny stares down at the screen for a second before picking it up. “I’ll be right back,” he says, sliding the bar at the bottom of the screen to answer, and he walks into the other room. Claude could probably eavesdrop, but he doesn’t even try.

“ _That’s_ never a good sign,” Carson says.

“Well,” Cam says with a shrug, “I didn’t do anything, so it’s not me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not _me_ ,” Caelan insists, one hand to his chest, and Claude feels like he should chime in.

“I didn’t do anything, either,” he says, and Caelan snorts.

“You maybe did,” Cam says. “You’re always getting in trouble for, like, pranks and stuff.”

“Not this time,” Claude says, and Claude’s feeling pretty good, except for how suddenly it feels like Danny’s not. The five of them sit at the table when Danny comes back shortly after that, and Danny’s not feeling _unhappy_ , not really, but he feels—

“It’s better with the honey mustard,” Cam says, and Danny feels—

Worried? No.

_Anxious. Sylvie sitting across the table, spine almost as rigid as Danny’s is, How can you watch them if you’re never_ home _, she says, but Danny_ is _, Danny’s_ trying _. The time it took for them to figure out what the boys just needed two of: toothbrushes, sets of clothes, winter gloves. Claude saying, Quit stalling and get out of here, I’m sick of you guys, and Carson responding, If you didn’t have us, you and Dad would have nothing to talk about. How afterwards, after they had gone, Danny said, Peace and quiet, finally, but his chest was tight as he did, and Claude understood what he really meant_.

“Oh, I didn’t take any,” Carson says. “Pass it here,” and Danny is outwardly smiling, but he’s still just so—

_I don’t like sharing them either, Claude admitted, and that something in Danny’s chest had finally, mercifully, relaxed._

“Boys,” Danny says, out of the blue, and the boys seem to recognize that that isn’t a good sign.

“Oh, no,” Cam says.

“What?” Caelan asks. “I said I didn’t cheat!”

“No, it’s not that,” Danny says patiently. He’s always so patient with them. “I know you wanted to stay here until Claude got better, and you’ve been so helpful—”

“What? No,” Carson says, guessing where this is going.

“I know you don’t want to, but you have to,” Danny tells them. “After school on Friday, okay? It’s your mom’s turn to see you, and while she was nice enough to let you stay here after Claude got hurt, we can’t keep her waiting forever.”

“What!” Caelan explodes. “That’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair about it?” Danny asks. “You still have two more days here, and you were supposed to go there last weekend.”

“Yeah, but Claude’s _sick_ ,” Caelan stresses. “He _needs_ us.”

“I’ll be fine,” Claude starts to say, but they all ignore him.

“Yeah, we have to help him get better,” Cam agrees earnestly, and he places a hand on Claude’s arm like it’s up to a twelve-year-old to nurse Claude back to health, when not even Danny can do that.

“What’ll help him get better is having a little quiet in the house,” Danny tries to explain, but the boys clearly aren’t having it. Caelan throws his fork down on his plate.

“This is stupid,” he says.

Danny assures him, “Nothing bad is going to happen while you’re away.”

Carson then tries to find the happy medium, and asks, “What if we stayed at Mom’s at night, but still came here during the day?”

“Your mom wants to _see_ you,” Danny says, and Claude wonders, if he weren’t sick, how readily the boys would leave. They’re all starting to get upset, Caelan more so than the others, and Claude wonders how long until Caelan explodes. Danny’s trying so hard to stay calm himself, thinking about it like he’s giving up what he fought so long and hard for.

“It’s only fair, eh?” Claude says, trying to diffuse the situation. He hates that he caused this, in a way, even if he doesn’t entirely understand what’s going on, and hates seeing the boys upset, seeing Danny upset. They’re _his_ , the four of them, they’re _Claude’s_ , and no one gets to upset them, not even Claude. Especially not Claude. “Can’t have you all to myself forever.”

“Yeah, no, this is a perfect time to ditch us,” Caelan spits, and Claude feels shame pooling in the pit of his belly. He knows where this is going now, and recognizes that only he’s to blame. “We go to Mom’s, and you can just forget we even exist! You’ve already forgotten that we’re family; what do you care?”

“Caelan—” Claude starts, but he hears it in stereo because Danny says it, too.

“Forget it,” Caelan says, and he gets up, storms upstairs to his room.

Danny looks at Claude, the corners of his mouth downturned and his face… hurt, maybe, or just so, so sad. Claude thinks at him, _Sorry, sorry, sorry,_ and refuses to listen when Danny thinks that it’s not Claude’s fault.

It _is_.

_Can we just take it one day at a time?_ Claude had asked, and he had meant it the way it sounded then, like Claude was a temporary part of the Briere family, with one foot out the door, but he doesn’t mean it anymore. He _wants_ to be a part of this family, even if he’s not yet, not quite.

“If he’s not here when we get back from Mom’s, I’m gonna be so mad at you,” Carson says to Danny. It’s funny, almost, because then Carson gets up and quietly follows Caelan upstairs, leaving Claude when Claude is _right there_. And isn’t the whole point that they don’t want to leave him, for fear that he leaves them first?

“Well,” Danny says, at a loss. Cam is still sitting across the table, his eyes flickering between the stairs and his burger. He stands up. Looks at his burger. Sits down. Looks at the stairs. The burger. “Oh, just take your plate and get out of here.”

Cam visibly deflates and says, “Thanks.” He snags his plate and then marches around the table, stopping only when he gets to Claude. “You’re the best, G,” he says, a small smile on his face, and it feels so much like a larger goodbye than is necessary for just going upstairs.

For what was probably supposed to feel like a nice gesture, Claude hates it.

“They're just young,” Danny tries to explain. “It's not you.”

Claude doesn't particularly like that gesture, either.

 

Danny insists on doing the dishes after they eat.

“You sure I can’t help?” Claude asks anyway. He feels bad, somehow at fault for how the boys blame Danny for everything.

“Claude,” Danny says. “It's just dishes; I'm fine.”

“Alright,” Claude says, and because there’s nothing else he can do, he goes upstairs.

It’s not hard to tell where the boys ended up, because all of the doorways are dark except for one; the door is shut to Caelan’s room, but light creeps out from around the edges. There are some pictures taped to the front: the three of them on the couch with identical slack-jawed faces as they play videogames; Caelan lifting a trophy on the ice, another boy’s hand wrapped loosely in Caelan’s jersey; a picture of Claude ripped out from the newspaper, bushy eyebrows and extra missing teeth drawn in with pen, a speech bubble that reads, _I love cop butts_.

Claude feels like there must be a story behind that last one, but pushes the thought aside in favor of knocking. He doesn’t hear anything from inside, and so he knocks again a little bit louder, and downstairs, Danny feels guilty for giving the dogs leftovers.

“Hey,” Claude says, his face pressed close to the door. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

“No,” Caelan says. “Go away.” But the door eases open anyway, and Cam is there, a smear of honey mustard on his cheek.

“Hey, Claude,” he says, smiling, and just past him, Caelan is stewing on the bed. Claude can’t yet see Carson, but knows with certainty that he’s there.

“Hey,” Claude says; and then he tries again, “Can I come in? I sort of… think I owe you guys an apology.”

“Sort of?” Caelan scoffs, and Carson pops his head up from behind the bed.

“I do. I definitely do,” he says, but Caelan doesn't seem any more inclined to let him in. “I was an asshole. Don't tell your dad I said that, but I was; you're not temporary to me, alright?”

A moment passes in awkward silence. Cam’s still standing in the doorway like a two-by-nothing bouncer, and behind him, Caelan and Carson have a silent discussion. Carson raises his eyebrows; Caelan rolls his eyes.

“Accepted,” Carson announces.

“Wait,” Cam says, suddenly wary. He narrows his eyes. “You still don't remember, right?”

“No,” Claude says. That's the honest answer, but he's not sure if that's what they're hoping to hear.

“And you want us anyway?” Caelan asks, jutting his chin out.

And Claude thinks—

What else is there for Claude to think? Of course he wants them. He's not their dad, isn't yet their Claude, but _this_ Claude, the one right in front of them, feels like they're already his, in some ways. It's insane to think that a few short days ago, he couldn't make any promises to Caelan; that a few short days ago, he wasn't certain himself.

He remembers, years back, coming home to their house, _The Briouxs_ sign crooked on the door, sliding the key into the lock. The windows were dark. He was in a suit that he couldn't wait to take off, although Danny looked good in the one he was wearing. Claude opened the door and let Danny walk in first; the dogs ran over, their nails clacking on the tile, and that was it. That was everyone that was awake that late at night.

Only then the lights flipped on, and confetti was thrown in the air, noisemakers blocking out Claude’s thoughts and the racing sound of his heartbeat. The boys were singing off-key, and there was a cake on the table lit with electric candles, because Danny didn't trust the three of them with matches. Zoey had a cone-shaped party hat on; Danny’s hand rested on the small of his back.

Claude remembers that. Not like he's living it for the first time, not like all the other things he’s been remembering; he remembers it, but not like he's learning it. Claude just remembers that, the way the boys were smiling so wide, like he remembers anything else that’s a part of him. Like he remembers his mom, or hockey.

“Yes,” he answers in the doorway, because he does, he _does_ want them, even if he doesn't get any more back than what he has already remembered.

“Then what are you standing outside for?” Caelan asks, and Cam throws the door open wide.

“Welcome to my lair,” Cam says in what is probably supposed to be his evil voice, his fingers waggling.

“It's _my_ lair,” Caelan points out, and Carson rolls his eyes.

“Well, whoever’s lair it is, can G come inside now?”

“Yeah, chop chop,” Caelan demands. It’s only once Claude’s inside, sitting cross-legged on the bed and watching Carson and Cam argue their way through a thumb war, that Caelan says, “I’m sorry, too.”

Claude doesn’t know what for, but it doesn’t matter; Claude’s certain that he already forgave for Caelan everything and anything that he could possibly do back when they met the first time. He jokes, “Already forgotten,” and finds himself proud of the sarcastic snort of laughter that he gets in return.

 

The next morning, Claude sleeps through breakfast and wakes up to an empty house, Zoey sharing his bed, her head on his hip as she loudy snuffles in her sleep.

“How did you get in here?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep. Zoey doesn’t answer, just groans and rolls over, and Claude looks toward the door; it’s open exactly the width of one fat bulldog.

Claude shoves Zoey off his leg and then rolls out of bed, shoving his feet into his moccasins as he does. The house is still, and his room is still mostly a mess, but not entirely—he suspects Danny’s been in to tidy up, just putting the clothes away, shutting the drawers.

“Danny?” Claude calls out down the hallway. He listens for a second, but hears nothing, just the sound of Zoey’s dog tags clinking together as she lifts her head. Practice, maybe. Running errands.

Claude makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, where Zora comes trotting over happily, and he blearily shoves a K-Cup into the Keurig machine on the counter. They’ve got another coffee maker, something sleek and fancy and called a Jura, but it doesn’t really look like it gets much use, and Claude doesn’t feel like risking it. He bets they got it as a gift, or maybe Danny just bought it thinking they’d have more time than they do to use it. One thing Claude has learned by watching Danny around the house is that with a houseful of kids, there’s really not such a thing as downtime.

The Keurig’s quick and easy, though, and when Claude’s coffee is done, he grabs his mug, just barely remembering to throw away the used K-Cup. There are a couple of cereal boxes still out on the counter, and while Claude knows he should probably have the Kashi, he fills his bowl to the rim with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and then eats it standing over the sink so he doesn’t have to worry about his milk sloshing over.

The house is really quiet, and once the dogs make their way downstairs and fall back asleep, it gets even quieter. Claude can feel Danny through the bond, happy and on the ice, but he doesn’t pursue it.

Claude grabs his coffee mug and wanders idly around the house, mostly looking for something to do. He stops to put away some X-Box games that are lying out by the tv, putting his coffee down on the coffee table as he does so. Only then he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be putting his hot mug down without a coaster, so he goes looking for coasters, and when he can’t find any, he just gives up and sets his mug on the carpet for all of the two minutes it takes him to put the discs back in their boxes and the boxes back in the entertainment center.

He grabs his coffee and wanders around some more, his fingers constantly moving to reach out and touch: organize a stack of textbooks, center the salt and pepper on the table. He makes his way out to the entry hallway, and the photos that have been there since day one are all staring back at him.

After the hit, Claude went out of his way to avoid them, afraid of what he might see. He cups his mug in two hands and looks at them now.

They're just pictures.

There’s nothing special about them except for how Claude wants so badly to be him. The other Claude.

Claude reaches out and straightens the frame of one photo. He doesn't know where it was taken or what's going on, but the boys are covered in mud, and Danny’s behind them, laughing. The photo to the right of that one is of Claude and Danny on the ice at an All-Star Game. Claude straightens the frame of that one, too, and then the one next to it, of Caelan smiling with a mouthful of missing teeth.

Claude’s just _bored_ , is the thing. The house is too big and too quiet and too _not his_ , and he doesn’t know what to do with his free time, anyway; all Claude ever did before was hockey, playing it and thinking about it.

“Hey, Zoey,” Claude calls out. He whistles to get her attention, but she doesn't move. He tries the other one. “Zora! Wanna go for a walk? Walk?” That word must do it, because then the two of them then run over to the front door, staring up at it expectantly. They’re all barely contained energy as they try to stay still, their bodies shaking excitedly, but once Claude clips their leashes on, they start jumping and tugging.

“I know,” Claude says to them. “I’m excited to get out, too.”

Claude reaches a hand out to open the door, only the door opens before he gets there, and suddenly Danny’s in the doorway.

“Whoa, shit!” Danny says, a hand to his heart as he startles; Claude can feel it racing under his own palm. Danny smiles and then rolls his eyes, huffs out a laugh as he says, “Jeez, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” Claude says. He holds up one end of the leashes. “Was just gonna go out on a walk. Get out. You know.”

“Yeah, of course,” Danny says easily. He drops his bag just inside the doorway. “Looking for company?”

Claude shrugs. He wasn't, not really, but mostly that’s because he wasn't thinking he'd find any. He says, “Sure.”

Danny smiles at him, and then points from Claude’s head to the hall closet. “You're gonna want a hat.”

Claude rolls his eyes but grabs a knit tuque, anyway; it’s striped black, white, and orange, and has a giant pom on the top. Claude's certain he looks like an idiot.

Outside, the snow crunches under their boots, frozen from having been on the ground overnight. Claude’s breath hovers in the air in front of him as the cold bites at his skin. The dogs pull on their leash at first, but knock it off when Danny whistles loudly.

“They love you more, but actually listen to me,” Danny explains afterwards, Zoey and Zora shamefaced and bumping into Claude’s shins.

Claude waves a hand at the dogs and says, “Go. Frolic.” Danny laughs and bumps a shoulder into Claude; Claude bumps his shoulder back, and resolutely looks out at the street.

“You know,” Danny starts, and for a second, Claude expects him to say, _You used to_ , or, _When we first met_ , or anything that would make Claude feel out of place. Instead, Danny says, “When I was really little, I used to be afraid of the snow.”

“What?” Claude asks, choking back a laugh. He must not do a very good job of it, because Danny knocks their shoulders together again, and again Claude knocks back. “You’re messing with me.”

“No,” Danny says, a smile on his face as he shakes his head. “I would cry and cry and cry anytime I had to go out in it.”

“Yeah? Still terrified?” Claude jokes, just for something to say.

“The boys would eat me alive if I showed weakness.” Danny laughs, looks up at the sky and then at Claude, and the creases at the corners of his eyes are so much deeper when he smiles. Claude likes the way Danny looks all the time, but especially when he smiles.

Claude smiles back, and then darts his eyes away before he can feel his face flush.

“So what changed?” Claude asks, to distract from the way he’s feeling.

“What else? Someone slapped a pair of skates on me.” Danny laughs again and then goes skidding on a patch of ice, his arms flailing wildly in an attempt to keep himself upright. Claude reaches out and steadies him with one arm tight around Danny’s bicep, his fingers digging into the material of Danny’s coat. “Thanks,” Danny says. “You know, I don’t think I ever told anyone that before.”

It’s childish, maybe, but hearing that makes Claude feel happy _, so happy, in love, and a strange mixture of excitement and pride over learning something about Danny before anyone else, before even himself_. He doesn’t mention it, because of course Danny already knows. So instead he says, “Probably because it’s embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing,” Danny says lightly, an echo of his kids, and Claude lets himself be brave enough to take Danny’s hand in his own.

Danny smiles, and Claude takes in the sight of his face like a drowning man clutches at straw. Zoey circles a mailbox, tangling her leash around its post while Zora shoves her face into a pile of wet leaves.

Danny tugs on his hand to get his attention. "Tell me something about you," Danny says. "Something I don't know."

Claude shrugs awkwardly and says, "I don't know what you don't know."

"So tell me something anyway. I just told you my embarrassing snow fear; it can't get much worse than that." 

Claude laughs and then blushes, because he knows something embarrassing that he could say. He tamps down the thought so it won't travel through the bond before he decides if he even wants to say it. 

"Something embarrassing?" Claude asks. He’s feeling brave today, all things considered. "Okay, here's embarrassing: I have your poster up on my wall at home. At my parents' house, I mean." He darts his eyes over to Danny's face, but Danny's not laughing or pulling a face, or anything, just smiling a little. His nose is red from the cold. "You already knew." 

"Yeah, I already knew,” Danny admits, and it’s then that Claude knows he’s seen it. “But I like hearing it again, anyway." 

"Why? So you know you're not alone in the embarrassment?" 

"No," Danny says, his voice teasing. "I just like knowing that I was yours before I even met you." 

And Claude—he could point out that Danny was _married_ before, that Claude’s getting sloppy seconds, or he could argue that Danny is no one's at all, even with the bond, but he doesn't. He likes fate, he thinks. Just a little bit, just this time. Danny smiles like he knows it.

 

That night, the two of them make dinner together, standing pressed shoulder to shoulder in the large kitchen as the boys do homework at the kitchen counter. Claude slices vegetables for stir-fry and Danny moves them around in the pan, and then they all eat around the table, the boys doting on Claude at every turn, as if he’s liable to disappear right in front of their eyes.

When they go to bed, Claude and Danny sit in front of the tv, reruns of shows that Claude remembers watching in billets playing on the screen. Claude tucks his toes beneath Danny’s thighs, and it feels almost normal, except for how he’s never done it before.

“Feeling good, Clo?” Danny asks. Claude knows why he puts it like that, _Feeling good?_ and not _How are you feeling?_ because he can hear it in Danny’s thoughts, the way Claude now is reminding him of Claude then, his mannerisms and how he cups his mug in his two hands, how he keeps the remote wedged between the armrest and the couch cushion. He can tell how Danny likes that Claude is touching him, close to him, even though it's just toes under thighs. Claude guesses he used to do that a lot, before the hit; he used to have cold feet for as long as he can remember, always doubling up on socks before camping out in the Hearst cold.

Claude shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah?” Danny asks. It's an invitation for Claude to explain, if he wants. Danny could probably see the thoughts running through Claude’s head if he wanted to, but it's nice to know he doesn't go picking through them just because he can.

“Yeah,” Claude responds, and then he explains, “I want to start practicing again. I know I'm not—but I feel fine. I don't want to wait forever for something that might not...”

“Claude—”

“It's okay,” Claude says, and for once, it is. It has to be okay, because it's so, so exhausting when it's not. “I need to—that's a possibility, right? So. I'm okay with that.”

There's a long pause where Danny just looks at Claude, and Claude lets him.

“Of course,” Danny finally says. “We can talk to everyone tomorrow. We _should_ talk to everyone tomorrow. Dorsh and Jim and Sal. Coach.”

“Alright,” Claude says. He nods, and thinks about going through all those tests again, thinks about the cold medical table and the white sterile walls, thinks about touching his nose and repeating numbers backwards, thinks about looking at the chair in the corner and finding it empty. “You don't have to come, if you don't want to.”

“Claude. I want to,” Danny assures him, and squeezes Claude’s bare ankle briefly, _the feel of Claude’s toes wriggling under Danny’s thigh, Claude sitting there with his hair a mess. Claude looking like he belongs there, because he does. He did back then, too, playing knee hockey and getting tackled by the boys. Did you want to get a new house? Danny had asked once. One that's just ours, without all the mess of... everything else? Sylvie, he had meant, without all the mess of Sylvie and everything else that was Danny’s life before Claude, but Claude just shook his head. This one’s just ours now, he had said, and Danny couldn't believe he was just eighteen, just eighteen but so sure of himself and everything, and so beautiful with the way that he loved Danny and the boys, with his crooked grin and his messy hair, just letting them in without looking back, and the way he_ —

Danny removes his hand and takes his thoughts with him. Not intentional, just the end of the gesture.

The two of them fall silent after that, watching a Swamp People rerun that neither of them have seen before, or can remember seeing before. Claude can't help but think it’s nice, the two of them like that. Better with the boys, but still nice, just the two of them.

Claude burrows deeper into the couch cushions and flops his head to the side, so he can still see the show. Their episode ends and the next one starts up, and neither of them move, just follow the Swamp People to wherever they're going and whatever they're doing. This show is the dumbest thing, he thinks, but the house is warm and Danny’s there with him, and Claude is comfortable and happy and, after not much time at all, falling asleep.

“You should go to bed,” Danny says softly. Claude knows he’s right; he could feel his jaw slackening and his eyelids drooping even as he was lying there.

“Mmkay,” Claude says, and he sits halfway up. He rolls over and presses a light kiss into Danny’s lips, and then with his open hand braced on Danny’s chest, he climbs to his feet and heads to the stairs, tossing a last minute wave behind him as he goes.

He makes it halfway upstairs before realizing he kissed Danny again, and even then is too tired to think anything of it: it's just Danny, and Claude didn't even realize he was doing it. He wouldn't have thought anything about it, before, so he doesn't let himself think anything about it now, just flops into bed on the side farthest from the door, because that side is his.

It might work, he thinks, just before slipping back into sleep. This him and this Danny, this family that he can't remember but wants so badly anyway.

It's worth a shot, anyway. Might even be a sure thing, if Danny’s to be believed.

Claude likes the odds of a sure thing.

 

Claude has this dream.

They're walking down the tunnel toward the ice, the whole team, just a sea of orange marching out after two points. Danny’s right in front of Claude, and Claude really likes that. He likes following Danny out like this, following the stitched BRIERE until Danny passes the boards and opens up an entire sheet of ice for Claude.

“Could really go for a Jody Shelley sub after the game,” Hartsy says as they walk, and JVR smacks him in the shin with his stick.

“Would you quit it with that dumb joke?” Vora hollers. “He's not even here!”

“What are you talking about? Of course I'm here!”

Danny turns his head to look back, only it’s Jody that’s right there, not Danny. Jody’s right in front of Claude; where else would he be? There's a game. Of course Jody’s there.

“Wait,” Claude says, but no one listens to him. “Where’s Danny?”

Vora and Raffl and Jody hop onto the ice, and Claude grabs Hartsy by the jersey just as he's about to follow.

“Where’s Danny?” Claude asks again, but Hartsy just steps out without answering.

Claude follows him.

And the ice is—it's nice. It's always nice. There’s nothing Claude loves more than a sheet of fresh ice, uncut by skates, and Claude does a lap, looking around at the seats and the people milling around, all there for him, to see him and his team play hockey the Broad Street way.

It's everything, hockey. It's everything to him.

“Hey, who were you looking for?” Simmer asks. They're at the blue line.

“What?” Claude asks. “What are you talking about?” He's not looking for anyone. Everyone’s here, all of Philly in the arena, in the seats and in the aisles and on the ice.

“My bad,” Simmer says. “Thought you were looking for Danny B.”

“For who?” Claude asks. He doesn't know any Danny Bs.

“Danny B,” Coots clarifies as he skates by. “Mase is looking after him.”

He points with his stick to the goalie crease. Mase is there, and it looks like he’s stretching, but he's not; there are papers all over the ice, and Mase is gathering them up.

Claude looks down. There's a sheet of paper at his feet, too, and he takes one hand out of his glove so he can pick it up.

_Remember_ , the paper says. Hundreds of times over and over, it says, _Remember. Remember, remember, remember._

“Remember _what_?” Claude asks, and Mason skates over.

“Oh, I dunno,” Mase says. “Only everything.”

“What the fuck are you guys even _talking_ about?” Claude asks, and he looks around, hoping someone will have an answer. And then, back behind him, he sees—

There's a game going on. The scoreboard is lit with 2-2, and Claude’s over there. He has the puck. He dekes it past a pair of skates and then dumps it into the corner. He follows it, and Sustr is fighting for the puck, but Claude gets it out and then Brewer comes charging in, and Claude is pretty close to the boards, and his head is down, and at the other end of the ice, Claude wants to shout out to himself because he’s not going to see it in time, he's not going to realize—

He’s going to lose everything if he doesn't—

“Claude!” someone calls out.

The sound comes from the bench, and Claude looks over. It's Danny. Of course it's Danny. How did Claude forget about him? How is that possible? It's _Danny_.

“Claude!” Danny calls out again. “You just have to _remember_!”

“It's not that easy!” Claude calls back. “I'm try—”

At the other end of the ice, Brewer slams Claude into the boards.

 

Claude wakes up on his side of their empty bed, and Danny’s not there. The room’s a mess and Claude’s sweating and tangled in the bedsheets, and _Danny’s not there_ , because Claude forgot everything.

One bad hit and Claude lost everything, but he has it back now, _Danny’s hand sliding into Claude’s, Nice to meet_ — _oh!_ _The way the boys were wary at first, but warmed up to him so quickly, Carson saying, Make Dad think he wants to buy us a Segway, and Claude telling him a million times, It doesn't work like that, even though he barely even knew at that point how the bond did or didn't work. Nana Briere hugging him as tightly as she could, her skin soft and thin, whispering in his ear, Thank God for you. He needs you more than ever, and Claude promising her, I won't hurt him. I won't, I swear. And later, later, later, Danny’s face as Claude said, I don't even know him, and the way Claude felt that hurt like it was his own._

Claude remembers it all. It's all there, rattling around in his head, and Danny’s one bedroom over, totally alone in it all.

Claude untangles himself from the sheets and quickly ducks out of his room, tripping over his moccasins on the way. He’s thinking about Danny, only Danny, and their boys, their _family_. Danny’s just leaving the hall bathroom, the one that’s usually just for the kids, and he’s wearing a white t-shirt and an old, worn pair of Flyers sweats, from before Claude was even drafted. His hair is wet around his face from washing up, and he looks soft, looks tired. He looks like someone Claude loves more than anything in the world, and Claude has put him through so much. Danny’s been so good to him these past few days, and the realization makes Claude’s chest tight.

Danny smiles softly at him, when Claude keeps staring. “Alright, Claude?”

“Yeah,” Claude says, and then he clears his throat. How does he say everything he’s thinking? He can’t, couldn’t possibly, so instead he pushes it all through the bond, _I love you, I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, thank you, can I touch you, can I—the two of them on the couch, Claude’s toes beneath Danny’s thighs as he tosses popcorn in the air for Cam to catch in his mouth; Claude fucking into Danny slow, so slow, dragging his full palm along the length of Danny’s torso as they kiss. Meeting the boys for the first time, telling Danny, I just want them to like me, and Danny saying, They’ll love you; Claude sitting on the bench in the Wells Fargo Center, three weeks after the divorce is finalized, looking over at Danny and saying it for the first time, I love you, I’m so glad it’s you, and Danny smiling, his thoughts thanking Claude for being patient as he says, I love you, too._ “I’m—It’s me.”

Danny stares back at him for a second, his face blank save for the slight furrowing of his brows as he listens to everything Claude’s saying and not saying. A beat later, he breathes, “Oh,” and his face crumples.

And then he starts to cry.

“Hey, don’t,” Claude says, and reaches out. Danny takes his hand and pulls Claude close, their fingers threaded tightly together. Danny uses his free hand to gently cup the back of Claude’s head, their minds open and their bodies pressed together so completely that not even air remains between them.

“Thank god,” Danny says. His hand keeps reverently brushing Claude’s hair back, so gently, like he’s afraid any roughness could knock the memories out of Claude’s head again. “You’re okay, thank god. I _missed_ you.”

“I’m sorry,” Claude says, even though he knows he doesn’t need to. It’s just—now that he’s back, and now that he _remembers_ , he looks back on the past few days and sees all these things that a younger him couldn’t: the tense set of Danny’s shoulders, the circles under his eyes, the way the corners of his mouth were tight while his eyes remained soft. And he can see everything in Danny’s head now, too, now that he knows what he’s doing and now that Danny isn’t trying so hard to hide from Claude. He was so scared. Scared that Claude wouldn’t remember, that Claude would never get better, that Claude wouldn’t want to start over with him again. Scared that he wouldn’t be able to love a forgetful Claude the way he deserves, as a person and not just the shell of one. Scared of making things worse with a thoughtless comment or touch. Scared for the boys, for their family, for what would come and what wouldn’t.

Terrified, all day and every day, that he wasn’t being what Claude wanted, and so tired from not letting Claude be what he needed.

Claude can feel it, just how tired Danny was, how worn down and weary, and how it’s all overshadowed now with an unrelenting happiness. It makes Claude feel bowled over, makes him want to treat Danny so carefully until they’re both better.

“I love you,” Claude tells him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Danny says, and Claude lets Danny hold him close, feeling Danny feel Claude feel.

They stay like that for a moment that stretches on forever. Eventually, Danny pulls back just slightly and looks at Claude, and his cheeks are wet.

“Hey,” Claude says softly, placing one hand gently on either side of Danny’s face. He uses his thumbs to wipe Danny’s cheeks.

“Hey, you,” Danny says back, just as soft, and Claude leans in to kiss him.

There’s not much to it, just a long press of the lips as they stand there in the hallway, but Claude’s drowning in it, in the nothingness of the kiss and the vastness of the bond, the way it loops and loops and loops, folds in on Claude and on Danny and on itself, an unquantifiable forever.

“You did such a good job,” Claude says when they pull apart, meaning at caring for him and for their family, at keeping it together. If it were the other way around, Claude doesn't think he could have pulled it off.

“Shut up,” Danny says, a smile in his voice like he thinks Claude’s teasing, and even though Danny feels so happy and so pleased and so _relieved_ , Claude doesn't want Danny thinking it was a joke.

“I mean it,” Claude reassures Danny again. “You were so great. I _know_ you.”

“I know _you_ ,” Danny says back, and Claude feels finally, miraculously, at home.

 

They go back to their bedroom together, an unspoken agreement between them. Claude refuses to let go of Danny’s hand the whole way, as if letting go of Danny’s hand might mean letting go of his memories, too. He’d hold onto the boys, too, if he could; remind them that he’s here and he’s theirs, that they mean the world to him. But it's late and they're asleep, have school in the morning.

“Tomorrow,” Danny tells him, his voice a whisper that cuts through the darkness. Claude can barely see him, and he can feel Danny hating that, hating that he can't see Claude and that Claude can't see him.

Danny flicks on the light and then follows Claude in slipping between the sheets. He stretches his neck out to kiss Claude again, and then rolls atop of him, putting his entire weight on Claude’s body, like somehow 174 pounds will keep Claude’s memory from slipping away again.

“I knew you'd come back,” Danny says like a prayer, or maybe he just thinks it. “I knew it.” He leans down and kisses Claude, uses his teeth to part Claude’s lips, presses his tongue inside Claude’s mouth, and leans into it like he’s searching for something that Claude would willingly give him if only he knew what it was.

Claude sends his hands up underneath Danny’s shirt, lets them run up and down Danny’s spine and the soft sides of his ribs as Danny kisses him.

“Clo,” Danny says, “ _Clo_ ,” and he lets his mouth wander from Claude’s mouth to his cheeks, his jawline, his neck.

“Yeah,” Claude says. They're too tired, too exhausted for sex, but Claude will give Danny whatever he wants, and take whatever he can get in return. “Danny, _yeah_.”

Danny bites down on the side of Claude’s neck, right where the tendons meet his shoulder, and then worries the bite with his tongue. His hips are pinning Claude’s own down, and Claude rocks against him more out of instinct than anything else. He lets out a shaky breath as Danny sucks on his skin, and thinks about how much he likes this, thinks it so loudly that there’s no way Danny doesn't hear. He needs Danny to hear it, because Danny feels embarrassed by it, like there’s something wrong with needing to leave a physical reminder that Claude is his, as if just having the bond wasn't enough. And for a long few days, the bond _wasn't_ enough. Claude can't fault Danny for wanting to leave a mark, however fleeting, and he hates the way Danny’s so embarrassed by it, pressing his fingertips into the skin of Claude’s jaw as he tries to hide it.

“Fuck,” Claude says, Danny’s teeth pressing into his skin again, but it's a good _fuck_ , and Danny follows his teeth with the flat of his tongue. Claude tugs at his hair. “Yeah, yeah, come on.”

Danny pulls back, not to check in on Claude, but to look at the mark on Claude’s neck. Claude can't see it, but he can feel where it is when Danny runs his thumb through the saliva left behind, feels Danny’s fingers curled around the other side of his neck when he swallows.

“How is it?” Claude asks, but he doesn't care about the mark, and Danny knows that.

“I'll be fine,” Danny answers instead, but Claude knows it'll take a while.

Danny leans down and presses a chaste kiss to the side of Claude’s neck, and then pulls back. He just looks at Claude after that, his hand still on Claude’s neck, his thumb tracing the line of Claude’s jaw.

“I don't know what to say,” Danny whispers.

“That's okay,” Claude whispers back, afraid of breaking the silence and the moment stretching between them. “I don't know either.”

“Status quo, then,” Danny says, smiling something fragile. Claude wishes he knew how to fix that, but he doesn't, even with the bond. He had forgotten that so completely, how bonds don't fix anything just by existing.

“We’ll get you that Cup this year, eh?” Claude says. He means it as a joke, something to ease the tension, but it's not, not really.

“Claude,” Danny says, and then he breathes out a quiet laugh, open and real. “Claude, I don't give a fuck about the Cup right now.”

“Okay,” Claude says. He slides his hands down the back of Danny’s body until his fingertips are pressed in the crease at the tops of Danny’s thighs, and then he pulls up on the meat of Danny’s ass. He doesn't mean anything by it other than a promise for later. “I don't care about the Cup right now, either.”

“Yeah, you do,” Danny says, and he kisses the corner of Claude’s smile.

“Okay, I do,” Claude admits. “But it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Danny echoes, but it's more a feeling than anything else, and has nothing to do with hockey.

Danny rolls off Claude just enough so that his entire weight isn't bearing down on him, and pulls his pillow closer. He scrubs an open palm over his own face, and then gingerly touches one of Claude’s eyebrows before pulling away. The gesture doesn't mean anything, done simply because Danny can.

“Fuck, I'm so tired,” Danny says, and Claude takes his fingers through his hair.

“Get some sleep,” Claude tells him. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“You never did,” Danny says, and shuts his eyes.

 

Claude wakes in the morning to Danny’s thoughts and the feel of one of Danny’s palms flat on the side of his ribs, his thumb swiping back and forth over Claude’s bare skin. It’s early, Claude feels, earlier than he wants to be up, and so he pushes _love, love, still early, go back to sleep, what’s wrong, hey, go back to sleep_ through the bond at Danny.

Danny’s thumb stills, just for a fraction of a second before taking up movement again, but it’s enough that Claude squints one eye open to look at him.

Danny’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hair a mess, and the shirt he has on is stretched out at the collar. Looking at him, like always, Claude almost forgets how to breathe. He’s beautiful and he’s _Claude’s_.

“Hey, D,” Claude says, meaning _hey_ and _good morning_ and _I love you_ , and Danny smiles back at him, small but so, so genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his heart stuttering in Claude’s chest.

Claude forgot. It’s strange how quickly he forgot that he forgot, the sleep still in his eyes and waking up with Danny feeling so normal, but there were entire days that Claude had forgotten. Already he’s back to remembering, and anything else almost feels like a dream. It’s funny, in a way. Just one hit, and just like that—

No Danny. Something so integral to everything that Claude is, gone.

“Hey, you,” Danny responds. “Didn’t want to wake you, but…” _The kids, our boys, breakfast, school, the boys._

“Yeah,” Claude answers. “Yeah, you need the star lunch-maker in the kitchen,” and Danny smiles so wide, looks down as he breathes out a laugh and then snaps his eyes right back to Claude, as if Claude could have disappeared in such a short period of time. He leans down and kisses Claude, and Claude lets him because he wants to, threads his fingers through Danny’s hair, presses the pads of his fingers into Danny’s scalp, mimicking the press of Danny’s lips against his own.

Danny pulls away a moment later, and when Claude leans forward to follow him, Danny gives him two more kisses, light and quick, before sitting upright.

“Gotta get the kids,” he says, apologetic, and then, “Do you—should we tell them? Or should we wait until after you see Dorsh? Maybe we should ride out the weekend and make sure—” _you stay you, that you remember, that we stay put where we should be, in your mind, with you, where you know_ —

“Tell them now,” Claude says without thinking. He remembers Cameron’s face, worried that his happiness didn’t mean much to Claude, and Caelan thinking that Claude didn’t even want them at all. Carson thinking that Claude could leave them at any minute, the second their backs were turned. Claude can’t have that; he can’t have them thinking that for a second longer than they need to. “Now, yeah. I just need—”

“Yeah, of course,” Danny says. He nods his head towards the door. “Take your time. I’m gonna go give them a kick, get them up. Meet us for breakfast?”

Claude nods, and Danny unfolds his legs, slides off the bed. When he gets to the doorway, he turns back and says, “Five minutes and then I send a search party.”

“Ten minutes and I’ll make it worth your while once the kids are gone,” Claude replies, and Danny’s eyes darken, his mouth dropping open slightly.

“Right,” Danny says faintly, thinking, _Claude on his knees, Claude’s hands on Danny’s thighs, the hollows of his cheeks, the stretch of his lips, love you so much, fuck, fuck, Danny slumping back against the headboard, Claude_ — “Right,” Danny says again, smiling this time at how Claude so obviously intended to get him riled up. “Ten minutes.”

He raps his knuckles twice on the doorjamb and then he’s gone.

For a few minutes after that, Claude doesn’t move. He just stays in bed and lets his limbs fall heavy, and only once he hears everyone else up and moving does he sit up himself. He doesn’t know how to explain everything to the boys. With Danny, it’s always easy; _everything’s_ easy with Danny, because Claude never has to find the words with him. But with the boys... How does Claude explain that, just because he didn’t care when he thought he was eighteen, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care now? How does he explain that he just didn’t _understand_ , not how to be a bondmate, or a father, or a friend. He didn’t know how to do anything when he thought he was eighteen, only knew how to be confused and afraid.

Claude feels like he’s walking on uneven ground, because he hasn’t done this before and doesn’t know how they’ll react.

He climbs out of bed and pulls on an old shirt from off the floor—the one he was wearing yesterday—and then he goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, finger-combs his hair.

He’s stalling, he knows he’s stalling. So he sucks it up and heads down the stairs, nearly tripping over Zoey on the stairway as he does.

He can hear them, in the kitchen. There’s the sound of cereal hitting a bowl, and Carson saying, “Do we have the frosted ones?” Zora’s nails on the tile. And then Claude’s at the bottom of the stairs, and he can see them at the end of the hallway, just past the countertops, backlit by the dim light coming in through the kitchen windows and the sliding glass doors. They’re at the table, and Cam is still in his pajamas—a Giroux t-shirt and a pair of Iron Man sleep pants. Caelan’s hair is whispy up top and all cowlicked out to the sides, and Claude knows that before he goes to school, he’ll gel it back. Carson’s half asleep in his cereal, cheek propped up on his palm, and Claude—

Fuck, Claude _loves_ them. He was so stupid when he thought he was younger. Regardless of Danny, regardless of the bond, regardless of _everything_ , they’re _his_ now, and have been for seven long years. Forget the C, forget the NHL. Forget _hockey_. None of that matters, not even a little bit, not in comparison. How could he have missed this then? How could he not have noticed this, how light his heart was, his chest too small to contain everything that he felt for them?

For one brief second, they are all Claude knows and all Claude needs to know. Danny walks over to the table with glasses of juice, and he must say something because then Cam is laughing. The sound jerks Carson back to wakefulness, and Caelan tosses a Cheerio to Zora. The only thing that’s missing is Claude—the Claude who remembers or the one who doesn’t, it doesn’t make a difference to them in any of the ways that matter. But this Claude does remember. He _does_. Still and again, he remembers them.

Danny looks up as Claude walks over and pulls out his chair, smiling lightly and feeling so much love, love, love. His chest is exploding with that, _love, and the way the sunlight looks peeking over the trees outside, Caelan waving his spoon in hello, the pillow crease running down Carson’s cheek, Cam clumsily pushing an empty bowl over, the feeling of wanting this moment to last forever, all of them, the five of them, just like this, together around the kitchen table, forever._ Or maybe that’s Claude; maybe that’s Claude who’s feeling that.

Either way, Claude commits it to memory.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Still and Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10346985) by [ofjustimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofjustimagine/pseuds/ofjustimagine)




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